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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from" 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/companionpoetsOObostrich 


COMPANION    POETS. 


ILLUSTRATED, 


WHITTIER'S  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 
BRYANT'S  VOICES  OF   NATURE 
HOLMES'S   HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


^mxi^m 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
I  87  I. 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

With   Illustrations   by 

George  G.  White,  H.  Fenn,  and  C^a^l^s^A,.  ,Ba^ry. 


BOSTON: 
FIELDS,    OSGOOD,    &    CO., 

SUCCESSORS  TO   TICKNOR   AND   FIELDS. 
1869. 


•    •     **  EnlerVid  ktc6rdirig  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 
TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 

GIFT  OF 


University  Press  :   Welch,   Bigelow,   &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Stanzas     .       .        .       , 7 

Clerical  Oppressors ii 

The  Christian  Slave 15 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 15 

The  Farewell 18 

Lines  on  reading  the  Message  of  Governor  Ritner      .       .  zi 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia             23 

The  Branded  Hand 27 

Texas         .                . 29 

To  Faneuil  Hall ...  3} 

The  Pine-Tree 34 

Lines  suggested  ry  a  Visit  to  Washington     ....  36 

YoRKTowN 40 

The  Watchers      . 43 

Lines  written  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions,  etc.  46 

The  Crisis 48 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 51 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista 55 

Democracy 58 

Thy  Will  be  done 61 

"EiN  feste  Burg  ist  Unser  Gott" 62 

ASTR^A  AT  the   CaPITOL .  6$ 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra 67 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862 69 

Mithridates  at  Chios 71 

The  Proclamation 72 

At  Port  Royal 74 

V  IcHABOD 78 

Our  State*.    79 

ivi  107309 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times  — 1850 80 

A  Sabbath  Scene 82 

Rantocl 86 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie      . 89 

The  Rendition 90 

Lines  on  the  Passage  of  the  Personal  Liberty  Bill   .        .       91 
The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day        .        .        •       ..        ,        .95 

The  Eve  of  Election  . 94 

Le  Marais  du  Cygnb       .        , 97 

Barbara  Frietchie 100 

Laus  Deo 103 


NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 
The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 
Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 
"The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame ; 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn  ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped ;  but  still,  with  awe. 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw ; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
And  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come. 

In  grief  which  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal. 


\   \  ,,\  ^^<J[T'IONAL  LYRICS. 

With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And,  poisoning  and  embittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her,  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  — we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace  :  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day  ; 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain ; 
'T  is  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain  ! 

Not  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light, 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  0  Lord !  be  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  be  done ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast. 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 


3d  Mc,  1865. 


NATIONAL     LYRICS. 


|!iii'f^:'y'lf 


STANZAS. 


OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 
Slaves  —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law ! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war ! 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood  — 
A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell  — 

By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well ! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there  — 

The  falling  lash  —  the  fetter's  clank  ! 
Slaves  —  SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that  air. 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank ! 

What,  ho  ! — our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains, 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh  ! 
What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold  ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold ! 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry. /newace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light  — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong, 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Onr  sympathies  across  the  wave. 
Where  Manliood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom,  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  Avith  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 


STANZAS. 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eye. 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  1 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  1 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free. 
From  "farthest  Ind"  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  1 
And  shall  we  scotF  at  Europe's  kings,    • 

When  Freedom's  fii^e  is  dim  with  us. 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  1 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote  — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ  : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home. 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us !  " 

Just  God !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest. 

The  Christian's  scorn  —  the  heathen's  mirth  — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth? 
2 


lO  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 

Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 
Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  gray-beard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing ! 
Up  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing ! 

Oh !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth  — 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man  — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth. 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up  —  up  —  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  !  —  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain  —  the  yoke  remove. 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod. 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  : 
But  rear  another  altar  there. 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given. 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven  ! 


CLERICAL    OPPRESSORS. 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 

JUST  God  !  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 
On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 

What !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks  —  and  rob  thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  '? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine  ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And,  in  thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  thy  own  altars  pray  1 


12  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living-  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down  ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood  — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God  ! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh  !  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease  —  and  Liberty,  and  Love, 
And  Truth,  and  Right,  throughout  the  earth  be  known 

As  in  their  home  above. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  SLAVE, 


13 


THE   CHRISTIAN    SLAVE. 

CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
"Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  —  for  his  grace 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won '? 


A^ 


My  God  !  can  such  things  be '? 
Hast  Thou  not  said  'that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one, 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then. 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  I 

A  Christian  up  for  sale ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips  —  o'ertask  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and  shame, 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years. 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher  —  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command  —  Obey  ! 


14 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ;  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile, 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first  and  best. 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels. 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  foil. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes  — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee,  the  bloody  hand 
.And  haughty  brow. of  wrong? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's  cell  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loathsome  hell. 

And  CO  file's  weary  chain,  — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry. 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky. 

How  LONG,  O  God,  how  long  ? 


STANZAS  FOR    THE   TIMES. 


STANZAS   FOR  THE   TIMES. 

IS  this  the  land  our  fixthers  loved, 
The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  1 
Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved '? 

Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 
Are  ive  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn "? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves. 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  1 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  1 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  —  but  as  our  masters  please? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  1 
Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 

Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel  — 

The  dungeon's  gloom  —  the  assassin's  blow, 

Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 

The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Hound  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed,  — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  1 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  1 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  1 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought  ? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ^ 

Shall  Honor  bleed  1  —  Shall  Truth  succumb  1 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb '? 


l6  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

No  —  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall  — 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound  — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered  wall  — 

By  Warren's  ghost  —  by  Langdon's  shade  — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  wliich  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet  — 

By  all  above  —  around  —  below  — 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer  —  NO  ! 

No  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws. 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may  —  as  freemen  can! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod. 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God  ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  1 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim. 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with  fiame  ^ 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  1 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  1 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 

Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  liave  worn. 
Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  ? 

Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 

What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 


STANZAS  FOR    THE   TIMES, 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong'? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life  —  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn  ? 

False  —  foul  —  profane !     Go  —  teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail  on,  then,  "brethren  of  the  South"  — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  — 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  tiie  Sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder —  we  are  free  ! 


17 


i8 


NATIONAL  LYRICS 


THE   FAREWELL 


OF  A   VIRGINIA   SLAVE   MOTHER  TO   HEK   DAUGHTERS   SOLD   INTO 
SOUTHERN    BONDAGE. 


G' 


^  ONE,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 


THE  FAREWELL. 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them. 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash. 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress,  them. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  ray  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow. 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 

aint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain. 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again  — 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them  - 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  iiills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play  — 


19 


NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank - 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer. 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginians  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died. 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side. 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swainp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth  — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth  — 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known. 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


LINES,  21 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON   READING   THE    MESSAGE   OP   GOVERNOR   RITNER,    OF 
PENNSYLVANIA,   1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token  !  —  one  lip  is  still  free  — 
One  spirit  untrammelled  —  unbending  one  knee  ! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deej^-rooted  and  firm, 
Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm  ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust,  — 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has  broken  ! 
Tliank  God,  that  one  man,  as  a  freeman  has  spoken ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been  blown  ! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has  gone ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South  —  of  the  charter  and  chain  — 
Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips  ! 
Where  "  chivalric  "  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the  poor ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high. 
And  the  words  which  he  utters  are  —  Worship,  or  die! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it !     Wherever  the  blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to  God ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining ; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining  ;• 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart. 

Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind. 

In  silence  and  darkness,  tlie  God-given  mind ; 

There,  God  speed  it  onward  !  —  its  truth  will  be  felt  — 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened  —  the  iron  shall  melt ! 


22  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of  Penn 
Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and  glen  — 
Will  the  land  where  a  Benezet's  spirit  went  forth 
To  the  peeled,  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of  Earth  — 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst  — 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of  their  kind. 
The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  combined  — 
Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a  chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  '? 

No,  RiTNER !  —  her  "  Friends,"  at  thy  warning  shall  stand 
Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  imite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  sliame  and  the  pain. 
And  counting  each  triad  for  Truth  as  their  gain  ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine  — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  tliC  slave  :  — 
Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords  of  the  South 
One  brow  for  the  brand  —  for  the  padlock  one  mouth  ? 
They  cater  to  tyrants  ?  —  They  rivet  the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro  again  ? 

No,  never !  —  one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the  West, 
On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below ! 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO    VIRGINIA,  23 

The  voice  of  a  people  —  uprisen  —  awake  — 
Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Freedom  at  stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from  each  height, 
"  Our  Country  and  Liberty  !  —  God  for  the  Right  ! " 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO  VIRGINIA. 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern 
way, 
Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay :  — 
No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  peal. 
Nor  steady  h'ead  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go  — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow ; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia !  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here  — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank  — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank ; 
Through  storm  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts 

which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblchead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry 'feun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms  ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam. 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 


24 


NATIONAL  LYRICS 


What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?     Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array  1 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "Liberty  or  Death  !  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory  —  false  to  the  fiiith  they  loved. 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn. 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn  ^ 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell  — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhountt's  yell  — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves. 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves ! 

Thank  God !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow,  and  calm,  and 

cool, 
She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool  ! 

All  that  a  sistet-  State  should  do,  all  that  Sifree  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's 
free  air 

With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  de- 
spair ; 

Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon  your  plains 

The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO    VIRGINIA,  25 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginian  name  ; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame ; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever,  of  your  sin,  and  shame,  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath 

been, 
Thrilled,   as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain 

men : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray. 

How,  through   the   free   lips  of  the   son,   the  father's  warning 

spoke ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high,  — 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply ; 
Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons 

rang. 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics 

sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex  —  of  thousands  as  of  one  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington  — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages  ;  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round ;  — 

From  rich  and  rural  "Worcester,  Avhere  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir. 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  *'  God  save  Latimer  !  " 
3 


26  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray  — 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay  ! 
Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holvoke 
Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters  — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud  —  the  sound  of  many  waters  ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State!     No  slave  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !     In  calmness  we  have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn ; 
You've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels  —  you've  hunted  for  our 

lives  — 
And  shaken  round   our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and 

gyves ! 

We  wage  no  war  —  we  lift  no  arm  —  we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin ; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  ye  can. 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God-like  soul  of  man ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity,  is  registered  in  Heaven  ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  Ixn'ders  —  no  pirate  on  our  strand  ! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  —  no  slave  upon  our  land! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND.  .  27 

THE   BRANDED    HAND. 

1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman  !  with  thy  thoughtful 
brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day,  — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve,  ia  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain  ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?     Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest  work  thy  shame  ? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn  ! 

They  change  to  wrong,  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity  too  legible  for  doubt ! 

Thet/,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  footsole  up  to 

crown, 
Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and  renown  ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor !  —  than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  Avas  a  prouder  blazon  set; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky  strand. 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  branded  hand  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances,  and  of  Paynim  scimetars. 

The  pallor  of  the  prison  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span. 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man ! 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave. 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave ; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod. 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God  ! 


28  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For,  while  the  jurist  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 
From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung, 
And  tha  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted  shrine, 
Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood 
for  wine,  — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-oif  Saviour  knelt. 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt ; 
Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison-shadows  dim. 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  Him ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 
Thou  did'st  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  schoolmen 

know ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels  only  can. 
That  the  one,  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven,  is  Man  ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed. 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  aAvful  form  of  God  ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right  hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  *'  Salvation  to  the  Slave  ! " 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  Northern  air,  — 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  lor  the  love  of  God  look  there  ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  —  like  the  Bruce's  heart  of 

yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before  ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan  line : 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches,  and  the  Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that 
hand  1 


TEXAS. 


29 


TEXAS. 


VOICE   OF   NEW   ENGLAND. 


UP  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen. 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 


30  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Like  a  lion  growling  low  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  — 

It  is  coming  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak. 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party  —  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime. 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both : 


TEXAS.  31 


*'  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  lead  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 

Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair. 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  J 


32 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Onward  with  your  fell  design ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow. 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise ! 

We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand,  — 

Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  ! " 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL.  33 

TO    FANEUIL   HALL. 
1844. 

MEN !  —  if  manhood  still  .ye  claim, 
If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame. 

Freely,  strongly  still :  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut  the  mill-gate  —  leave  the  stall  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by  — 
Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall! 

Wrongs  wliich  freemen  never  brooked  — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  father's  way  ;  — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand. 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land  — 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars  — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold. 
Through  whose  pines  the  Avestering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall : 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun ; 
Let  your  hearts  togetlicr  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 


34  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade. 
Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 

Freedom  asks  your  common  aid  — 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains. 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  — 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?     Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  1 

Let  us  unchain  theirs  ! 
Up  !  your  banner  leads  the  van. 

Blazoned  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall  1 


THE   PINE-TREE. 

1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay   Staters  rusted 
shield. 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's  tattered  field, 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "Thus.saith 

THE  Lord  ! " 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  —  set  the  battle  in  array  !  — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do  to-day. 


THE  PINE-TREE.  35 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs  - —  cease  your  paltry  peddler  cries  — 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling  stocks 

may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton  ?  —  That  your  gains  may  sum 

up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children  through  the 

fire? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real  1  —  God  and  truth  and  right  a  dream  1 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood  kick  the 

beam  1 

O  my  God  !  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest  of  Andros 

down  !  — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets  to  cry  : 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts  !  —  Set  your  feet  on  Mammon's 

lie! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic  —  spin  your  cotton's  latest  pound  — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor  —  keep  the  heart  o'  the 

Bay  State  sound  ! " 

Where  's  the  man  for  Massachusetts  ?  —  Where  's  the  voice  to 
speak  her  free  1  — 

Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  mountains  to  the 
sea  ? 

Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  ?  —  Sits  she  dumb  in  her  de- 
spair ?  — 

Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  1  —  Has  she  none  to  do  and 
dare  ? 

O  my  God !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted  shield, 

And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's  tattered  field  ! 


36  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED   BY   A    V^ISIT  TO    THE   CITY   OF   WASHINGTON   IN  THE 
12th   MONTH   OF   1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light. 
On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 
From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever. 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide. 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same  quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall. 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs  which  from  its 
table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !     They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place : 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 
Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace ; 
For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great  hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair. 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air; 
And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  measures  sweet  and  rare  : 


LINES. 


37 


There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 
Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem. 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which  God  and  Truth 
condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  hroader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange ; 
From   the   parlor   to   the   prison   must   the   scene   and  witness 
change. 

Hark  !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 

On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God  !  —  Is  that  a  woman 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human. 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
Are  they  men  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that  sad  procession 
flash? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 
What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride  ? 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 
On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  slave-ship  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on  Potomac's  tide ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition. 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl. 
Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave  in  anguish 
call? 


38 


NATIONAL  LYRICS, 


Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 
Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the  hollow  show  ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping ; 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping  ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear  their  generous 
part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys. 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast. 
With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing . 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words  "  Be  Free  !  " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but  his  advent  is  to  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  reve^ 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil. 
For  a  keener  sense  of  right. 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the  Slaves,  to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 
All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  :  — 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a  Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 


LINES. 


39 


Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 
To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted  slowly  back  the  murk  of 
night !  — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 
While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 
From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an  echo  of  the  last !  — 

O  my  brothers  !  O  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near. 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 
Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to  the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below  — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 

We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow  for  blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 
Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 

From  a  purpose  true  and  brave ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 

Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust. 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is  most  just. 


40  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 
With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?     Shall  we  cloud  their  blessed 
skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 
Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it  is  not  day ! 


YORKTOWN. 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still. 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday. 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel. 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 


yorktown: 

October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  niglit's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines  ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes. 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone :  with  one  glad  voice 

Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice ; 

Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 

She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, . 

Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood, 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 

While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear  : 

The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here  ! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn,  — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  1 

O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight. 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 
4 


41 


42 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Lo  !  threescore  years  have  passed ;  and  where 
The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear. 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

O,  iiclds  still  green  and  fresh  in  story. 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men. 

Ye  spared  the  wrong ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall  ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame, — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name ! 

Where  's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war? 

Where  flows  its  stripe  1     Where  burns  its  star  ? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 

Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 

Where  Mcxic  FreetXom,  young  and  weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak : 

Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  .midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  tliy  Neva's  banks  ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell. 
Safe  drear  Siberia's,  frozen  hell  : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled. 
What  of  the^New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


THE    WATCHERS. 


43 


THE   WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  Ifeavily  the  dew  .of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 


44  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  tlie  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long !  "  —  I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace,  — 
"  Is  there  no  respite  ? —  no  release  1  — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease '? 

"  0  Lord,  how  long  !  —  One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave? 
How  weigh  the  gift  tliat  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave'? 

*'  0  brother !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be. 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun. 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

''  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 


THE   WATCHERS. 

"  But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed. 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ?  — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"  Nay,"  Peace  implored  :  "  yet  longer  wait ; 
The  doom  is  near,  tlie  stake  is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

*'  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"  Too  late  ! "  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
<*  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed. 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 
An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white. 
So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"  Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang ;  "  the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  !  " 


45 


46  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF  PINCKNEY'S  RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE 
HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND  THE  PASSAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S 
"bill  FOR  EXCLUDING  PAPERS,  WRITTEN  OR  PRINTED,  TOUCH- 
ING THE  SUBJECT  OF  SLAVERY  FHOM  THE  U.  S.  POST-OFFICE," 
IN  THE   SENATE    OF   THE   UNITED    STATES. 

MEN  of  the  North-land  !  where  's  the  manly  spirit 
Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone  ? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 

Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenehed  within  us, 

Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low. 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 
To  silence  now  ! 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging. 
Silence  is  crime ! 

"What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Rights  all  our  own  ?     In  madness  shall  we  barter. 
For  treacherous  peace,  the  freedom  Nature  gave  us, 
God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  human  fetters. 

Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights  deny. 
And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skilled  abettors 
Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 

Both  man  and  God  ? 


LINES. 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer. 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way, 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 
Day  after  day  ? 

O  no ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  mountains  — 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie  — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges  —  from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
"With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows*  motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff — 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought  farmer  — 

From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel  — 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the  hammer, 
Rings  the  red  steel  — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil,  choice. 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 
A  People's  voice 

Startling  and  stern  !  the  Northern  winds  shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

O,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bondman  sighing 

By  San  tee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane. 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 
Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth !     The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 


47 


48  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

O,  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wronged  captive,  bleeding,  crushed,  and  lowly, 
Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !  will  jq  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 

The  fire  awake  ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight. 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heavenly  Father, 

Maintain  the  Right  ! 


THE   CRISIS. 

WRITTEN   OJS   LEARNING   THE  TERMS  0¥  THE  TREATY  WITH  MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's  drouth  and 
sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's  strand ; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wikl  and  free. 
Flowing  down  from  Neuva  Leon  to  California's  sea ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa  Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo !     Let  thy  simple  children  weep  ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos  keep  ; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines. 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines ; 
For  lo  !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes  of  gain. 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's  plain. 


THE   CRISIS.  49 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound,  the  winds  bring 

down, 
Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Neveda's  crown  ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel  slack, 
And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his  back ; 
By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine. 
On  many,  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers !  that  land  of  lake  and  plain. 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain  ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in  softest  geeen  ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars  ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds  that  none  have 

tamed, 
Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon  never 

named ; 
Deep  mines,  dark   mountain   crucibles,  where  Nature's  chemic 

powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will :  —  all  these  ye  say  are  ours  ! 

Forever  ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden  lies  ; 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the  skies. 
Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom,  turn  the  poised  and  trembling 

scale  ? 
Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  prevail  ? 
Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry- splendor  waves. 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East,  of  which  the  prophets  told. 
And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age  of  Gold : 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly  i)en. 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand  up  as  men ; 
The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn  ! 


so 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


Is  this,  O  countrj'men  of  mine  !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 
The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of  woe  ? 
To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  old  world's  cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the  tired  lap  of 

Time? 
To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 
And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of  mao  ? 

Great  Heaven  !     Is  this  our  mission  ?     End  in  this  the  prayers 

and  tears. 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger,  better  years  ? 
Still,  as  the  old  world  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer  darkness  borne  ? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in  the  air  ? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands. 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing  down  ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and  shame ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the  prophets  came ; 
By  the  Euture  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
O  my  people  !  O  my  brothers  !  let  us  choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way ; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales  with  grain ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train  : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  imto  mountain  call :  Praise  God,  for  we  are 

FREE  ! 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


51 


RANDOLPH   OF   ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving. 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  Autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  West, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow. 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  —  in  himself 
All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 

The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe. 
The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting ; 


52  NATIONAL  LYPdCS, 

The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 
Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 

The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 
Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing. 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed. 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning. 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave,         ' 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him. 
He  heard  her  rivers*  rushing  sound. 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 


RANDOLPH   OF  ROANOKE. 

He  held  his  shxves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  :  yet  kept  the  while 
•     His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 
Tn  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Laid  down  for  his  last  sleeping,    , 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother  man  stood  weeping. 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  ftiults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 
The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 

None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 
Along  her  future  treading. 


sz 


^54  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 
When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 

He  traced  with  dying  hand  '<  Remorse  !  " 
And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling ! 

And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  — -wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  liero  living ! 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA.  55 


THE   ANGELS    OF   BUENA  VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  iis,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  for  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they  far  or  come  they  near  ? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God  have  mercv  on  their  souls  !  " 


56  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  —  "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !    Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more  : 
"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  lefore. 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain 
course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximana !    "  Ah  !  the  smoke  has  rolled  away ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !    that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !    there  the  troop  of  Minon 

wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

*' Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat  and  now  advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Pacbla's  chargiflg  lance  ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ;  horse  and  foot  together  fall ; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  tlie  North- 
ern ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on  : 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and  who  has  won  1 
"Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all !  " 

"  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting :    Blessed  Mother,  save  my 

brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive 

to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes  ! " 

"  0  my  heart's  love  !  0  my  dear  one  !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my 

knee  ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?     Canst  thou  hear  me  ? 

canst  thou  see  ? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle !  0  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  mercy  !  mercy  !  all  is  o'er  !  " 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA. 


S7 


Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said ; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away  ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt. 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath 

of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly 

smiled  : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother^s  ?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother  ! "  murmured  he,  and 

died ! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth. 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  tlie  North ! " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead. 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !     "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  be- 
hind ; 
Ah !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive  ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  0,  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  0  Night,  among  thy  mountains  !  let  the  cool,  gray  shadows 

fall ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 
5 


58  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint  and 

lacking  food ; 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern 

tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours  ; 

Upward,  through  its   blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden 

flowers  ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air ! 


DEMOCRACY. 


"  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even 
so  to  them."  —  Matthew  vii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 
The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise. 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred,  —  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 


DEMOCRACY.  59 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sous  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For,  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 

Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine  — 
The  pitying  heart  —  the  helping  arm  — 

The  prompt  self-sacrifice  —  are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye. 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth ! 
How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 

The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! . 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true. 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 
As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 

The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see'st  a  Maw 
In  prince  or  peasant  —  slave  or  lord  — 

Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin. 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame. 

Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 
The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set,  — 

The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 


6o  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart. 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high,  — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee.  " 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  w^orshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering  :  — 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Day,  1843. 


THY   WILL  BE  DONE.  6l 


THY  WILL   BE   DONE. 

WE  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these. 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  1 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

"We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait,  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  suppHes 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power. 


62  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain,' 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys. 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain. 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


"EIN    FESTE   BURG    1ST   UNSER   GOTT." 

(LUTHER'S  HYMX.) 

^  T  7  E  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 

V  V     The  pangs  of  transformation ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth ; 
All  justice  dies. 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 


''EIN  FESTE  BURG  1ST   UNSER   GOTT^  63 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel  ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  1 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  1 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :   Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
O  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both. 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
*'  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  1 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  1 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erth rowing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 

Whate'er  the  cross,  » 

Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken '? 
Though  wild  and  loud 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 


64  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share. 
Whose  shame  we  bear. 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges. 
While  still  is  spared  .the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot. 
And,  murmuring  not. 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor ! 


ASTJt^A  AT  TEE   CAPITOL.  65 


ASTR^A  AT  THE    CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  THE  DISTRICT  OF   COLUMBIA,    1862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 
The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold. 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath. 

And,  smothering  down  the  wrath  and  shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 

Stood  silent — where  to  speak  was  death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 

Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 

For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 
And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to. the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 


66  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power ; 

And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie,  — 
Somehow,  sometime,  the  end  would  be ; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !     In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes. 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  !  — 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall. 

The  song  that  Bethlehem's  shepherds  knew ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ;  —  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing  !  —  yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun,  — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun,  — 


THE  PASS   OF   THE  SIERRA. 

Rejoice  with  me !     The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love ;   the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice  !     Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope !     The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 


THE   PASS  OF  THE    SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow ; 
The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark. 

The  gray  bear  from  his  den. 
Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 

Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain, 

Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow :  at  last,  a  glow, 
A  gleam  of  sudden  fire. 


67 


68 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


Shot  np  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 
And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"  Up,  men  !  "  he  cried,  "  yon  rocky  cone, 
To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass. 

And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 
On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  ! '' 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 

They  trod  th'  eternal  snow. 
And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 

The  promised  land  below. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN   OF  1862.  69 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  AYinter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing. 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band 

Another  task  remains. 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear 

Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 
Lo  !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 

Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 

Rise  up,  Fremont  !  and  go  before ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man  ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van ! 

8th  mo.,  1856. 


THE    BATTLE   AUTUMN   OF    1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky. 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient.  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well. 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 


yo  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 
This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 

The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 
And  yellow  locks  of  corn  1 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears. 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years. 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  th'  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers. 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these. 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 


MITHRIDATES  AT   CHIOS. 

O,  give  to  lis  her  finer  ear ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

King  peace  and  freedom  in  ! 


MITHRIDATES   AT   CHIOS. 

KNO  WST  thou,  0  slave-cursed  land ! 
How,  when  the  Chiangs  cup  of  guilt 
"Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  1 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far ; 
But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  .     . 

Was  answered,  when  the  JEgean  wave 
The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of  war. 

"  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's  decree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from  the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall  be, 
In  Colchian  mines  by  Phasis  rolling  dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves : 
The  priestess  rent  her  hair  and  cried, 
"  Woe  !  woe  !     The  gods  are  sleepless-eyed  !  " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves  of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 


71 


72  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

"  The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 
So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught. 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought " ; 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old, 
Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told. 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned. 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet  with  their  blood  and  tears. 


THE   PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  these  words  : 
"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free !  " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven. 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys. 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave. 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God  pardon  him ! ' 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 

So  went  he  forth  :  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 

O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of  wrong ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages ;   but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare. 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him !  like  him  return  again. 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first. 
And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slavery  cursed. 


73 


'^^^^••^ 


74 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


AT   PORT   ROYAL, 


THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  san(]| 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  ti^e. 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  miner  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 

From  hand  to  hand,  froin  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song. 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong. 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

O,  praise  an'  tanks !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom. 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 


75 


76  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red-Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on. 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow. 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free ; 
De  Norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring. 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  'U  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail. 

We  waited  for  de  Lord : 


AT  PORT  ROYAL, 

An*  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key ; 

He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 

We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And,  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust. 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 

The  Yala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


77 


78  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


ICHABOD ! 

SO  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 
Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath. 

Befit  his  fall ! 

O,  dumb  be  passion^s  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age 

Falls  back  in  night ! 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 

Insult  him  now. 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead. 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought. 

Still  strong  in  chains. 


OUR  STATE.  79 


All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


OUR   STATE. 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain,   . 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain. 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 


8o  •  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 

While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school ! 


STANZAS   FOR   THE   TIMES. 
1850. 

THE  evil  days  have  come,  —  the  poor 
Are  made  a  prey ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 
The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain : 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below. 
Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  !  —  yet  we  boast 

Our  blood  and  name ; 
Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost. 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's  coast 

Cries  out  for  shame  ! 


STANZAS  FOR    THE   TIMES.  gl 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan. 
Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suifering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice  :  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice  :  "  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  more 

Whom  God  hath  freed." 

Dear  Lord  !  between  that  law  and  thee 

No  choice  remains ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O,  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience,  thou 

So  calm  and  strong ! 
Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


82 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


A   SABBATH    SCENE. 


Q  Cx\RCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
v^    Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 
Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people. 


A  SABBATH  SCENE,  g^ 

"When  down  the  summer  shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eage.r. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the  trees, 

She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  ; 
O,  pitying  Christ !  a  refuge  give 

That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling  ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 

Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 
While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 

A  lank-haired  hunter  stridcd. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing ;  — 
Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead  1 
■#   Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 

The  hunter  and  the  flying ; 
Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and  day  ?  " 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench  's  a  slave, 

And  I  'm  her  lord  and  master  ! 

"  I  Ve  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 

And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me?  " 
Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 

«My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 

To  own  and  work  and  whip  her ; 
Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglot 

Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  !  " 


84  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 
Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more. 
The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"  Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day, 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations : 

•'  And  this  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender; 

As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  !  " 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 
Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder ; 

I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 
God  answering  with  his  thunder ! 

All  still !  —  the  very  altar's  cloth 
Had  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to  face. 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle. 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all. 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking ! 

My  brain  took  fire :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
**  The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching? 

Then  down  with  pulpit,  down  with  priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching ! 


SABBATH  SCENE.  Zs 

"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

To  give  it  to  the  Devil ! 

*'  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  ever^^  book 

And  every  man  ^s  a  liar  !  " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 

In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on ; 
I  heard  the  priest  cry  "  Infidel !  " 

The  lawyer  mutter  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up,  —  where  now  were  church, 

Slave,  master,  priest  and  people '? 
I  only  heard  the  supper-bell. 

Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill. 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 
The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 

The  wind  of  summer  lifted. 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 

Above  the  casement  swinging, 
With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun. 

The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature ! 


86  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on ; 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  Break  evert  yoke. 
Undo  the  heavy  burden  ! 


RANTOUL. 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped ; 
We  came  next  morn  :  that  tongue  of  fire 
Said  only,  "  He  who  spake  is  dead !  " 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome ! 

Dead !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 

With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of  home !    A 

Dead !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour ! 

Dead !  while  we  watched  his  manhood's  prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower ! 

Dead  !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise. 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew  breath ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  surprise. 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death  ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled. 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world,  — 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 


RANTOUL.  ^       87 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the  word 

Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land ; 
And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 

Which  dropped  from  Hampden's  dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 

And  walked  with  Pym  and  Vane  apart ; 
And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 

Of  Preedom's  march  in  Cromwell's  heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 

Where  England's  best  and  wisest  trod  : 
And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that  welled 

Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right. 

Self-poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway 
The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
V^he  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 

He  pressed  where  others  paused  or  failed ; 

The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant  will, — 
.  The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled ! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 

And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law ; 
Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 

The  choral  harmonies  whereby 
The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  rejoice, 

The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 

To  poor  ambitions  ;  yet,  through  all. 
We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 

And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the  thrall. 


88  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  hke  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth. 

And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 

And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 
To  make  the  Democratic  name 

Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas. 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come. 

And  shape  themselves  to  words  like  these :  •#** 

"  Why,  murmuring,  mourn  that  he,  whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long. 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  1 

"■  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 

No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain ; 
The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fell 
'     No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 

That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er ; 
Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 

It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once  more. 

"  Men  of  the  North !  your  weak  regret 

Is  wasted  here ;  arise  and  pay 
To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt. 

By  following  where  he  led  the  way ! " 


BROWN   OF   OSSAWATOMIE. 


89 


BROWN   OF   OSSAWATOMIE. 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his  dying  day  : 
"  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a  prayer  for  me  ! " 

7 


90  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to  die ; 

And  lo !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed  nigh. 

Then  the  hold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old  harsh  face  grew 

mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the  negro's 

child ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the  loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the  good  intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's  aureole  bent ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  human  blood ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which  underlies; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Never  more  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle  hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's  spear. 
But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  pasapj^  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice  more  than  mail ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  wmter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not  harm  the  dove; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to  Love ! 


THE   RENDITION. 

I    HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech. 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 
My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  handcuffed  down  that  sworded  street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 


LINES  91 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 
And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 

A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 

All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 

Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 
And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 

And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 

Fell  sudden  darkness,  like  the  fall 
Of  midnight  upon  noon  ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong. 

Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness  trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

**1b  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud. 

Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 

Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 
And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

*'  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave. 

Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said ; 

Ah,  me !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead ; 
I  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 
6th  mo.,  1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO  PROTECT  THE  RIGHTS  AND  LIB- 
ERTIES OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  STATE  AGAINST  THE  FUGITIVE 
SLAVE  ACT. 


I 


SAID  I  Stood  upon  thy  grave, 
My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 


92  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung, — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips. 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates. 

His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan. 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thoil  clothe  with  life  the  hope. 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great. 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last ; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no  more. 
And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

6th  mo.,  1855. 


THE  POOR    VOTER   ON  ELECTION  DAY,  93 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY. 


THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer. 
The  highest  not  more  high ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small. 
The  nameless  and  the  known ; 


94 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 
The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  riglit  abide; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Tiian  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there  's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man  's  a  man  to-day  ! 


THE   EVE   OF   ELECTION. 


F' 


^ROM  gold  to  gray 
Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon ; 
But  tenderly 
Above  the  sea 
Ilangs,  white  and  calm,  the  Hunter's  moon. 


THE  EVE   OF  ELECTION, 

In  its  pale  fire 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west  wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs ; 

And  princes  meet 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land. 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon ! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer. 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear ! 


95 


96  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom,  is  the  freeman's  vote  ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 

The  stake,  the  cord. 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend. 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
0  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms,  — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye. 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 


LE  MARAIS  DU   CYGNE,  97 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims, 

And  private  aims. 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven. 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 


LE   MARAIS   DU    CYGNE. 

ABLUSH  as  of  roses 
Where  rose  never  grew! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 
Bleach  out  in  the  sun ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 


98  NATIONAL  LYRICS, 

The  foul  human  vultures 
Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 

The  wolves  of  the  Border 
Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins. 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed. 

The  victims  were  torn, — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne  I 
On  death  for  the  strong  life. 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing. 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives. 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen. 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swanks  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death  train. 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 


LE  MAEAIS  DU  CYGNE. 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies. 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 

Weep,  iatherless  child ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath. 
And  the  crown  of  his  hai'vest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars. 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way. 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


99 


lOO  NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


u 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

P  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 


The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple-  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde. 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall,  - 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars. 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set. 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 


BARBARA  FRl^fCHIE.^ 


Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  rjjnks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


10^   '    '''       '    <  ^'NAfWNAL  LYRICS. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame. 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  ! "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er. 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 


LAUS  DEO. 


LAUS    DEO. 

ON  HEARING   THE    BELLS    RING   FOR    THE   CONSTITUTIONAL  AMEND- 
MENT  ABOLISHING    SLAVERY   IN  THE   UNITED   STATES. 


IT  is  done ! 
Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 
How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel, 
How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  O  bells ! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel : 
God^s  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground.. 
Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad ; 
In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder. 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song. 

Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea : 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown ; 

He  has  triumphed  gloriously ! 


^o4 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  he  has  done  ? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  hind 
Stretched  as  now  heneath  the  snn ! 

How  they  pale. 
Ancient  myth,  and  song,  and  tale. 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise. 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin. 

It  is  done ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice. 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth ! 

King  and  swing 
Bells  of  joy  !  on  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ; 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains. 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns. 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


»  *    9  9  « 
'    »    » 

•  *  9  a* 


/'y''' 


TOIOES    OF   N^ATURE. 


WILLIAM  CTJLLElsr   BRYA:NrT. 


Mith  Blu$ttiation$» 


NEW     YORK: 
D.    APPLETOIT     AiTD    OOMPANY, 

443    &    445    BEOADWAT. 
1865. 


ENTBBjaD,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1865,  by 

D.  APPLETOK  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  oJ 

New  York. 


[These  selections  from  the  Poems  of  Mr.  Bryant  are  made  by  the  pub- 
lishers to  supply  a  popular  demand  for  the  rural  poems  in  a  single  in- 
expensive volume.] 


OONTEiTTS, 


June 5 

Thanatopsis 8 

The  Yellow  Violet 10. 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood 12 

To  A  Waterfowl 13 

Green  River 15\ 

A  Winter  Piece lY 

Ode  for  an  Agricultural  Celebration 21 

The  Riyulet 22 

March —  26 

Summer  Wind 27 

Monument  Mountain 29 

After  a  Tempest. 33 

Autumn  Woods 35 

November 37 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star .' 37 

Song  of  .the  Stars 40  y 

A  Forest  Hymn 41 


4  CONTENTS. 

Oh,  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids 45 

Lines  on  Revisiting  the  Country 47 

^  The  Death  of  the  Flowers.  .  - 49 

October 50 

The  Gladness  of  Nature 51 

Midsummer 52 

A  Scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Hudson 54 

The  Evening  Wind 55 

To  THE  Fringed  Gentian 57 

A  Summer  Ramble 58 

Catterskill  Falls 61 

"  Earth's  Children  Cleave  to  Earth  " 65 

JThe  Winds 65 

The  Painted  Cup 68 

A  Hymn  op  the  Sea 69 

The  Unknown  Way '72 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple  Tree 73 

Robert  of  Lincoln 76 

An  Invitation  to  the  Country 79 

Song  of  the  Sower 81 

The  New  and  the  Old 88 

The  Third  of  November,  1861 90 


YOIOES  OF  IsTATUEE. 


JUKE. 

I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 
And  the  green  mountains  round. 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make. 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet. 
And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 
Away  ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 
Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze. 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet. 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 


VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
An.d  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 


JUNE. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show. 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow  ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been. 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
"  Is — ^that  his  grave  is  green ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


VOICES  OF  NATVBE. 


THANATOPSIS. 

TO  him  who- in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  Uke  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — ^Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground. 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shaU  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again. 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 


TITAJVATOFSIS.. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting  place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepuLihre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
.  Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun. 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregan,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there  : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — ^the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?    All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 


10  V0IGE8  OF  NATURE. 

His  favourite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
••   To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  hun,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE  YELLOW  VIOLET. 

WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell. 
And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know. 
The  yellow  violet's  modest  beU 

Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume. 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare. 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 


'     THE  YELLOW  VIOLET.  11 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring  . 

First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould, 
And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 

Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  smi,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  skies,  and  chiUing  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 

Tet  shght  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 
And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 

Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet. 
When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh. 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day. 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk ; 

But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 
The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried. 

I  copied  them — but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 

Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light, 
I'll  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 

That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 


12  VOICES  OF  NATURE, 


mSOEIPTION  FOR  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A 
WOOD. 

STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 
No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 
Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 
That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 
To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 
Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth. 
But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  guilt 
Her  pale  tormentor,  misery.     Hence,  these  shades 
Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness  ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 
The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily.     Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 
Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 
That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 
Partake  the  deep  contentment ;  as  they  bend 
To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 
Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 
Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 
Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 


TO  A   WATERFOWL.  13 

That  sucks  its  sweets.     The  mossy  rocks  themselves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude, 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots. 

With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 

Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 

Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its  bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks. 

Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 

In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 

Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 

That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind,  * 

That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee, 

Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 

Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

"TTTHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
V  V     While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last 

steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 


14 


VOICES  OF  NATUBE, 


There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,- 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 


£ 


'C '  fW^  :^jf  -^"^^ 


GBEEN  BIVEB,   .  15 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home  and  rest. 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend. 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 

And  shall  not  gioon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone. 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


GEEEN"  RIYER. 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care. 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene. 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green. 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through. 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 


IC  VOICES  OF  NATURE, 

Yet  pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  coloured  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away. 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 
The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown. 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 
Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come. 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum  ; 
The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there. 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air ; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Y6t,  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream !  by  the  village  side ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men. 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill. 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely — save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides. 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes,  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still — save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed. 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  or  fairy  shout. 


A  WINTER  PIECE.  17 

From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings. 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart. 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks,  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men. 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen. 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd. 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud — 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face. 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream. 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears        • 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


A  WINTER   PIECE. 

THE  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
2 


18  VOICES  OF  NATUEE, 

Beat  with  strange  flutterings— I  would  wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 
Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 
That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then  the  chant 
Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
.     To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink. 
And  lose  myself  in  day  dreams.     While  I  stood 
In  nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When  shrieked 
The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods. 
And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades, 
That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 
Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still ;  they  seemed 
Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 
Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks  ;  the  brook. 
Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 
As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 
The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams. 
And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 
By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 
Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 
Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 
Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still  skirts, 
Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 


A   WINTEB  PIECE.  19 

And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 

Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee. 

Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 

Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 

That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 

Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 

Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 

The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 

And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 

Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 

A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves. 

The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the  snow 

The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 

Of  fox,  and  the  raccoon's  broad  path,  were  there, 

Crossing  each  other.    From  his  hollow  tree. 

The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 

Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 

Of  winter  blast  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes, — he  boosts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows  ; 
Or  Autumn  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Obme  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice. 
While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.    Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps. 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look  !  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray. 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 


20  VOICES  OF  NATUBE. 

That  glimmer  with  an  amethystine  light. 

But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 

Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 

The  glassy  floor.     Oh !  you  might  deem  the  spot 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — ^where  the  gems  grow. 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 

Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 

Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun ; — 

Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 

And  crossing  arches  ;  and  fantastic  aisles 

Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.    Raise  thine  eye ; 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 

There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 

Look  in.    Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 

Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose. 

And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air. 

And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light ; 

Light  without  shade.    But  all  shall  pass  away 

With  the  next  sun.    From  numberless  vast  trunks, 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 

Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines, — 
'Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 


AGEIOULTUEAL   ODE, 

Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  shrill  somid  of  youthful  voices  wakes 
The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops, 
Falls,  mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn. 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft. 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.    Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds. 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft. 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forest  in  his  rage. 


ODE  FOR  AN  AGRICULTURAL  OELEBRATIO]!^. 

FAR  back  in  the  ages. 
The  plough  with  wreaths  was  crowned  ; 
The  hands  of  kings  and  sages 
Entwined  the  chaplet  round ; 


22  VOICES  OF  NATVBE, 

Till  men  of  spoil  disdained  the  toil 

By  which  the  world  was  nourished, 
And  dews  of  blood  enriched  the  soil 

Where  green  their  laurels  flourished. 
— Now  the  world  her  fault  repairs — 

The  guilt  that  stains  her  story, 
And  weeps  her  crimes  amid  the  cares 

That  formed  her  earliest  glory. 

The  proud  throne  shall  crumble. 

The  diadem  shall  wane. 
The  tribes  of  earth  shall  humble 

The  pride  of  those  who  reign ; 
And  War  shall  lay  his  pomp  away  ; — 

The  fame  that  heroes  cherish. 
The  glory  earned  in  deadly  fray, 

Shall  fade,  decay,  and  perish. 
Honor  waits,  o'er  all  the  Earth, 

Through  endless  generations. 
The  art  that  calls  her  harvests  forth, 

And  feeds  the  expectant  nations. 


THE  KIYULET. 

THIS  Httle  rill,  that  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 


THE  RIVULET, 

When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out. 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray. 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play. 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn. 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim. 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 


24  f DICES  OF  NATURE. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  m  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek. 
Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay. 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet. 
Dost  dunple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  winding  of  thy  silver  wave. 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime. 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  hmpid  waters  run  ; 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun  ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks  ; 
.The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress. 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress : 


THE  BIVULET.  25 

And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Though  changest  not — ^but  I  am  changed,    • 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy. 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  in  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye. 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away. 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould, 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date). 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook.  ( 

Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  sl^lt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 


2G  VOICES  OF  NATUBE. 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try. 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass  ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fadinj^  race  of  men. 


MAEOH. 

THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last. 
With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies ; 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast. 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak. 
Wild  stormy  month  !  in  praise  of  thee  ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak. 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands,  again  ^ 

The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm. 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 


SUMMER  WIND.  27 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills, 

In  joy  that  they  again  are  free, 
And,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 

Begin  their  journey  to  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 

Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 
But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 

A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


SUMMER  WIND. 

IT  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee. 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors ;  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  fohage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far,  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stem. 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.    Bright  clouds. 


28  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether, — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.    For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf. 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  his  coming.    Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?    See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge. 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  comes ! 
Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves  ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingUng  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs. 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs. 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  roadside  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


MONUMENT  MO  UNTAJN.  29 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 

r  I  iHOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
-L    Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand'st. 
The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partak^ 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens. 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets  strive 
To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once. 
Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds. 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 
That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind. 
And  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  north,  a  path 
Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 
With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  "of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.    But,  to  the  east. 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 


so  VOICES  OF  NATURE, 

Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 

Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray  wall. 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 

Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round  ;  a  beautiful  river  there 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills ;  beyond. 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mountain  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  reverend  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love. 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago. 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid. 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin  door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin ;  such  a  love  was  deemed. 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart. 


MONUMENT  MO  UN  TAIN,  3.1 

As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired  men  that  passed 
Her  dweUing,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance. 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear  ;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side. 
They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild  shades 
With  sounds  of  mirth.     The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say  the  girl  will  die  / 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured  her  griefs.     "  Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone," 
She  said,  "  for  I  have  told  thee  all,  my  love 
And  guilt  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed. 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Sound  in  my  ear  like  mockings,  and,  at  night. 
In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  laud  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.    All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame  ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes  ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 


32  VOICES  OF  NATUBE. 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.    About  the  cliflfs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit ;  for  they  deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl. 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 
To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends  sat  them  down. 
And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 
To  that  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 
Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 
Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees. 
And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  imlawful  love, 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 
Ean  from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun  grew  low 
And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.    There  was  scooped 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave  ; 
And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 
With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST.  33 

And  o*er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 

Of  small  loose  stones.     Thenceforward  all  who  passed, 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 

In  silence  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 

And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 

To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 

Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 

The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 

Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


^iFTER  A  TEMPEST. 

THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm ; 
The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpast, 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm. 
Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 
I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene. 
Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages  between. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred. 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground. 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird  ; 
For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 
And  gossipped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward ; 
To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  upsprung. 
3 


U  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 
Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 
The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them  ;  in  the  way 
Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay. 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell. 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous  scene  ;  while  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft  golden 
light. 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be. 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony  ; 
When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one. 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee. 
Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were  done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast. 


A  UTUMN  WO  ODS.  35 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits  ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past. 
Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 
O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 
On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven  shall  lie. 


AUTUMN"  WOODS. 

ERE,  in  the  northern  gale. 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees*  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 
Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold. 
In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold. 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow. 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 
In  these  bright  walks ;  the  sweet  south-west,  at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strown 

Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while,* 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 


36  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 
Come  the  strange  rays  ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ; 
Their  sunny-colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen. 
Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters  run. 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But,  'neath  yon  crimson  tree. 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy. 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad, 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad  ? 

Ah  !  'twere  a  lot  too  blest 
For  ever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray ; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  south-west 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and  power. 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


NOVEMBER.  37 


NOVEMBER. 


YET  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun ! 
One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapory  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run. 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are  cast, 
And  the  blue  gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 

Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way. 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  darkened  air. 


HYMF  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 


rpr 


IHE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  ; 
The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires  ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens,  and  go. 


38 


VOICES  OF  NATURE, 


Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR.  39 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet. 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindUng  air. 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there  ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure  walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done ; 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze,  the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun, 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud. 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and  cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze. 
And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night. 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  footsteps  right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old. 
Sages  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood. 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good. 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 


40  VOICES  OF  NATUEE, 


SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 

WHEN  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath, 
And  orbs  cf  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 
From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came, — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away. 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rang, 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sang  : 

'  Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 
Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  hira  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole. 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white, 
And  her  waters  that  he  like  fluid  light. 

'  For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face. 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space ; 
And  we  drink  as  we  go  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides ; 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away  ! 

'  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar. 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star. 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass  ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass  ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen. 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean. 


A  FOBUST  HYMN.  41 

"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  mom  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues. 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews  ; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round  ! 

"Away,  away  !  in  our  blossoming  bowers. 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn. 
See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  hght. 

"  GHde  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years ; 
Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent. 
To  the  furthest  wall  of  the  firmament, — 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim." 


A  FOREST  HYMK 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.    Ere  man  learned 
To  hQW  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 


42  VOICES  OF  NATUBE, 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trmiks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
Eis  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  least. 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow. 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults. 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fiU'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 


A  FOREST  HYMN.  43 

In  music ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 

That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 

Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 

The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship ; — ^nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes  ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould. 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on. 
In  sil-ence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 


44  VOICES  OF  NATURE, 

For  ever.     Written  on  thy  worlcs  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die— but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youtli, 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms ;  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Ketire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     Oh,  God  !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament 


"  OE,  FAIREST  OF  THE  BUBAL  MAIDS:'        45 

The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate. 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


"OH,  FAIREST  OF  THE  RUEAL  MAIDS." 

OH,  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades  ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky. 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child. 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks  ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 


46 


VOICES  OF  NATURE. 


Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


LINM  ON REVmiTINa  THE  COUNTRY,         47 


liot:s  0^  REVisiTiNa  the  country. 

I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 
Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer  sky, 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain. 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie ; 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near. 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year  ; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye. 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains, — to  behold 

With  deep  affection  the  pure  ample  sky. 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, — 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here,  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat. 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air ; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat. 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 


48 


VOICES  OF  NATURE. 


Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 


The  mountain  wind !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows ;  when,  in  the  sultry  time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  TEE  FL  0  WEBS.  49 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

rpHE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
-L    Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown 

and  sere. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead  ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy 

day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang 

and  stood 
In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow  ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood. 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn  beauty 

stood. 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague 

on  men. 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade, 

and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days 

will  come. 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home ; 
4 


50  VOICES  OF  NA  TUBE, 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees 

are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  riU, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late 

he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no 

more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side  ; 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast  the 

leaf. 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


OOTOBEE. 

AY,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  dehcious  breath. 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south  !  oh,  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air. 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks. 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh ; 

And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE, 


51 


THE  GLADNEStt  OF  NATURE. 


IS  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 
When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around ; 
AVhen  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 
And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground  ? 


52  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky ; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green  vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower. 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower. 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray. 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles  ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


MIDSUMMER. 

A  POWER  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him,  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 
From  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 
Look  forth  upon  the  earth — her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten ;  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze  ; 
The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants  ; 


MIDSUMMER, 


53 


For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown ; 
The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town  : 
As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned,  and  sent 
Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 


54  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 


A  SCENE  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  HUDSON. 

COOL  shades  and  dews  are  round  my  way, 
And  silence  of  the  early  day ; 
Mid  the  dark  rocks  that  watch  his  bed, 
Glitters  the  mighty  Hudson  spread, 
Unrippled,  save  by  drops  that  fall 
From  shrubs  that  fringe  his  mountain  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  clear  still  water  swells 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells. 

All,  save  this  little  nook  of  land, 

Circled  with  trees,  on  which  I  stand  ; 

All,  save  that  line  of  hills  which  lie 

Suspended  in  the  mimic  sky — 

Seems  a  blue  void,  above,  below. 

Through  which  the  white  clouds  come  and  go ; 

And  from  the  green  world's  farthest  steep 

I  gaze  into  the  airy  deep. 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things  are  they, 
On  earth,  that  soonest  pass  away. 
The  rose  that  lives  its  little  hour 
Is  prized  beyond  the  sculptured  flower. 
Even  love,  long  tried  and  cherished  long, 
Becomes  more  tender  and  more  strong, 
•      At  thought  of  that  insatiate  grave 
From  which  its  yearnings  cannot  save. 


THE  EVENING  WIND.  65 

River !  in  this  still  hour  thou  hast 
Too  much  of  heaven  on  earth  to  last ; 
Nor  long  may  thy  still  waters  lie, 
An  image  of  the  glorious  sky. 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  not  repose, 
And  ere  another  evening  close, 
Thou  to  thy  tides  shalt  turn  again, 
And  I  to  seek  the  crowd  of  men. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play. 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 
^  Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound. 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth ! 


VOICES  OF  NATURE, 


Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest. 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast : 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the  grass. 


The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep. 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep. 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN,  57 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange. 
Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listenmg  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAI^. 

THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew. 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night — 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed. 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky. 
Blue — blue — ^as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 


58  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


A  SUMMER  RAMBLE. 

THE  quiet  August  noon  has  come, 
A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky. 
The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb. 
In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds  that  rest 
Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng  ; 

The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast 
Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 

Oh,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours. 
In  early  June,  when  Earth  laughs  out. 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 
And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout ; 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk. 
And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 

From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 
From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell. 

But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows. 

Hushes  the  heavens  and  wraps  the  ground, 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 


A  SUMMER  E AMBLE. 


59 


Away  !  I  will  not  be,  to-day, 
The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care. 

Away  from  desk  and  dust !  away ! 
I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad. 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 
The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 

I'll  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 

Come,  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 
The  gentle  meanings  of  thy  heart. 

One  day  amid  the  woods  with  me. 
From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart. 


CO  VOICES  OF  NAT V RE. 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 
The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 

The  blue  wild  flowers  thou  gatherest 
Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come,  and  when,  mid  the  calm  profound, 
I  turn,  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek. 

They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 
Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 

Rest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 
And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze. 

Winding  and  widening,  till  they  fade 
In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 
Still  as  its  spire,  and  yonder  flock. 

At  rest  in  those  calm  fields,  appear 
As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 

One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks — 
There  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks 
Comes  faintly  Uke  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  may  the  gazer  deem  that  when. 
Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife. 

And  heart-sick  at  the  wrongs  of  men, 
The  good  forsakes  the  scene  of  Hfe ; 

Like  this  deep  quiet  that,  awhile, 
Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 

Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 
Welcomes  him  to  a  happier  shore. 


GATTER8KILL  FALLS. 


OATTERSKILL  FALLS. 

MIDST  greens  and  shades  the  Catterskill  leaps, 
From  cliflfs  where  the  wood-flower  clmgs  ; 
All  summer  he  moistens  his  verdant  steeps 

With  the  sweet  light  spray  of  the  moun^in  springs ; 
And  he  shakes  the  woods  on  the  mountain  side, 
When  they  drip  with  the  rains  of  autumn-tide. 

But  when,  in  the  forest  bare  and  old. 

The  blast  of  December  calls. 
He  builds,  in  the  starlight  clear  and  cold, 

A  palace  of  ice  where  his  torrent  falls, 
With  turret,  and  arch,  and  fretwork  fair. 
And  pillars  blue  as  the  summer  air. 

For  whom  are  those  glorious  chambers  wrought, 

In  the  cold  and  cloudless  night  ? 
Is  there  neither  spirit  nor  motion  of  thought 

In  forms  so  lovely  and  hues  so  bright  ? 
Hear  what  the  gray-haired  woodmen  tell 
Of  this  wild  stream  and  its  rocky  dell. 

'Twas  hither  a  youth  of  dreamy  mood, 

A  hundred  winters  ago, 
Had  wandered  over  the  mighty  wood. 

When  the  panther's  track  was  fresh  on  the  snow, 
And  keen  were  the  winds  that  came  to  stir 
The  lono;  dark  boup;hs  of  the  hemlock-fir. 


62  VOICES  OF  NATUBE. 

Too  'gentle  of  mien  he  seemed  and  fair 
For  a  child  of  those  rugged  steeps  ; 

His  home  lay  low  in  the  valley  where 
The  kingly  Hudson  rolls  to  the  deeps ; 

But  he  wore  the  hunter's  frock  that  day, 

And  a  slender  gun  on  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  here  he  paused,  and  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  tall  gray  linden  leant, 
When  tl^e  broad  clear  orb  of  the  sun  had  sunk 

From  his  path  in  the  frosty  firmament, 
And  over  the  round  dark  edge  of  the  hill 
A  cold  green  light  was  quivering  still. 

And  the  crescent  moon,  high  over  the  green, 

From  a  sky  of  crimson  shone 
On  that  icy  palace,  whose  towers  were  seen 

To  sparkle  as  if  with  stars  of  their  own ; 
While  the  water  fell  with  a  hollow  sound, 
'Twixt  the  glistening  pillars  ranged  around. 

Is  that  a  being  of  life,  that  njoves 
Where  the  crystal  battlements  rise  ? 

A  maiden  watching  the  moon  she  loves, 
At  the  twilight  hour,  with  pensive  eyes  ? 

Was  that  a  garment  which  seemed  to  gleam 

Betwixt  his  eye  and  the  faUing  stream  ? 

'Tis  only  the  torrent  tumbling  o'er. 
In  the  midst  of  those  glassy  walls. 

Gushing,  and  plunging,  and  beating  the  floor 
Of  the  rocky  basin  in  which  it  falls. 

'Tis  only  the  torrent — ^but  why  that  start  ? 

Why  gazes  the  youth  with  a  throbbing  heart  ? 


GATTEB8KILL  FALLS  63 

He  thinks  no  more  of  his  home  afar, 

AVhere  his  sire  and  sister  wait. 
He  heeds  no  longer  how  star  after  star 

Looks  forth  on  the  night  as  the  hour  grows  late. 
He  heeds  not  the  snow-wreaths,  lifted  and  cast 
From  a  thousand  boughs  by  the  rising  blast. 

His  thoughts  are  alone  of  those  who  dwell 

In  the  halls  of  frost  and  snow, 
Who  pass  where  the  crystal  domes  upswell 

From  the  alabaster  floors  below. 
Where  the  frost-trees  shoot  with  leaf  and  spray. 
And  frost-gems  scatter  a  silvery  day. 

"  And  oh,  that  those  glorious  haunts  were  mine !" 

He  speaks,  and  throughout  the  glen 
Thin  shadows  swim  in  the  faint  moonshine, 

And  take  a  ghastly  likeness  of  men. 
As  if  the  slain  by  the  wintry  storms 
Came  forth  to  the  air  in  their  earthly  forms. 

There  pass  the  chasers  of  seal  and  whale, 

With  their  weapons  quaint  and  grim. 
And  bands  of  warriors  in  glittering  mail. 

And  herdsmen  and  hunters  huge  of  limb ; 
There  are  naked  arms,  with  bow  and  spear. 
And  furry  gauntlets  the  carbine  rear. 

There  are  mothers — and  oh,how  sadly  their  eyes 

On  their  children's  white  brows  rest ! 
There  are  youthful  lovers — the  maiden  lies. 

In  a  seeming  sleep,  on  the  chosen  breast ; 
There  are  fair  wan  women  with  moonstruck  air, 
The  snow-stars  flecking  their  long  loose  hair. 


64  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

They  eye  him  not  as  they  pass  along, 

But  his  hair  stands  up  with  dread, 
When  he  feels  that  he  moves  with  that  phantom  throng, 

Till  those  icy  turrets  are  over  his  head. 
And  the  torrent's  roar  as  they  enter  seems 
Like  a  drowsy  murmur  heard  in  dreams. 

The  glittering  threshold  is  scarcely  passed, 
When  there  gathers  and  wraps  him  round 

A  thick  white  twilight,  sullen  and  vast. 
In  which  there  is  neither  form  nor  sound  ; 

The  phantoms,  the  glory,  vanish  all, 

With  the  dying  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Slow  passes  the  darkness  of  that  trance. 

And  the  youth  now  faintly  sees 
Huge  shadows  and  gushes  of  light  that  dance 

On  a  rugged  ceiling  of  unhewn  trees, 
And  walls  where  the  skins  of  beasts  are  hung, 
And  rifles  glitter  on  antlers  strung. 

On  a  couch  of  shaggy  skins  he  lies  ; 

As  he  strives  to  raise  his  head, 
Hard-featured  woodmen,  with  kindly  eyes, 

Come  round  him  and  smooth  his  furry  bed, 
And  bid  him  rest,  for  the  evening  star 
Is  scarcely  set  and  the  day  is  far. 

They  had  found  at  eve  the  dreamhig  one 

By  the  base  of  that  icy  steep. 
When  over  his  stiffening  limbs  begun, 

The  deadly  slumber  of  frost  to  creep. 
And  they  cherished  the  pale  and  breathless  form, 
Till  the  stagnant  blood  ran  free  and  warm. 


'EABTWS  CHILDREN  CLEAVE  TO  EARTUr     65 


"  EARTH'S  OHILDREJT  CLEAVE  TO  EARTH." 

EARTH'S  children  cleave  to  Earth— her  frail 
Decaying  children  dread  decay. 
Yon  wreath  of  mist  that  leaves  the  vale, 

And  lessens  in  the  morning  ray ; 
Look,  how,  by  mountain  rivulet, 

It  lingers  as  it  upward  creeps. 
And  clings  to  fern  and  copsewood  set 

Along  the  green  and  dewy  steeps  ; 
.     dings'  to  the  flowery  kalmia,  clings 

To  precipices  fringed  with  grass, 
Dark  maples  where  the  wood-thrush  sings, 

And  bowers  of  fragrant  sassafras. 
Yet  all  in  vain — ^it  passes  still 

From  hold  to  hold ;  it  cannot  stay. 
And  in  the  very  beams  that  fill 

The  world  with  glory,  wastes  away, 
Till,  parting  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

It  vanishes  from  human  eye. 
And  that  which  sprung  of  earth  is  now 

A  portion  of  the  glorious  sky. 


THE  WINDS. 


YE  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 
Softly  ye  playecf  a  few  brief  hours  ago ; 
Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee ;  ye  tossed  the  hair 
O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow  ; 
5 


66  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

Ye  rolled  the  round  white  cloud  through  depths  of  blue ; 
Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew ; 
Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 


How  are  ye  changed  !     Ye  take  the  cataract's  sound ; 

Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  and  its  might; 
The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground  ; 

The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 
The  clouds  before  you  shoot  like  eagles  past ; 
The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 
Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 

Skyward,  the  whirlmg  fragments  out  of  sight. 


The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain. 

To  escape  your  wrath ;  ye  seize  and  dash  them  dead. 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain ; 

The  harvest-field  becomes  a  river's  bed  ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drowned, 
And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest's  sound. 
Rise,  as  the  rushing  waters  swell  and  spread. 


Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 
A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray  ; 

Ye  fling  its  floods  around  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's  spray. 


THE  WINDS,  &l 

See !  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 
Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 
And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings, 
And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 


Why  rage  ye  thus  ? — ^no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made  you  mad ;  no  tyrant,  strong  through  fear. 
Has  chained  your  pinions  till  ye  wrenched  them  free, 

And  rushed  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere ; 
For  ye  were  bom  in  freedom  where  ye  blow ; 
Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go ; 
Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of  snow, 

Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 


0  ye  wild  winds  !  a  mightier  Power  than  yours 

In  chains  upon  the  shore  of  Europe  lies  ; 
The  sceptred  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures. 

Watch  his  mute  thro^  with  terror  in  their  eyes : 
And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand. 
And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band. 
And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand, 
To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 


Yet  oh,  when  that  wronged  Spirit  of  our  race 

Shall  break,  as  soon  he  must,  his  long-worn  chains, 

And  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place. 
Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains. 


VOICES  OF  ir A  TUBE. 

Let  him  not  riae,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air, 
To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare, 
To  fill  the  earth  with  wo,  and  blot  her  fair 

Unconscious  breast  with  blood  from  human  veins. 


But  may  he  like  the  spring-time  come  abroad, 
Who  crumbles  winter's  gyves  with  gentle  might. 

When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  God, 
Come  spouting  up  the  unsealed  springs  to  light ; 

Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  feet ; 

The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnings  sweet. 

And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost  meet, 
Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient  night. 


THE  PARTED  OUP. 

TEffi  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rusthng  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  Painted  Cup. 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 
That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 
To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 
On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel  bowers, 
And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.     Call  not  up, 
Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude, 


A  HYMN  OF  THE  SEA.  69 

The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world ; 
But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 
Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming-birds, 
To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless  lawns 
The  morning  sun  looks  hot.     Or  let  the  wind 
O'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 
A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry  plant, 
To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  sUght  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.    Well — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers, 
Lingering  amid  the  bloomy  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshippers  are  gone — 
Slender  and  small,  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine  ;  let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass  ; 
And  touching,  with  his  cherry  lips,  the  edge 
Of  these  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew. 


A  HYMN  OF  THE  SEA. 

THE  sea  is  mighty,  but  a  mightier  sways 
His  restless  billows.    Thou,  whose  hands  have 
scooped 
His  boundless  gulfs  and  built  his  shore,  thy  breath, 
That  moved  in  the  beginning  o'er  his  face, 
Moves  o'er  it  evermore.    The  obedient  waves 


ro  VOICES  OF  NATTTBK 

To  its  strong  motion  roll,  and  rise  and  fall. 
Still  from  that  realm  of  rain  thy  cloud  goes  up, 
As  at  the  first,  to  water  the  great  earth, 
And  keep  her  valleys  green.     A  hundred  realms 
Watch  its  broad  shadow  warping  on  the  wind. 
And  in  the  dropping  shower,  with  gladnea3  hear 
Thy  promise  of  the  harvest.    I  look  forth 
Over  the  boundless  blue,  where  joyously 
The  bright  crests  of  innumerable  waves 
Glance  to  the  sun  at  once,  as  when  the  hands 
Of  a  great  multitude  are  upward  flung 
In  acclamation.     I  behold  the  ships 
Gliding  from  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  to  isle. 
Or  stemming  toward  far  lands,  or  hastening  home 
From  the  old  world.    It  is  thy  friendly  breeze 
That  bears  them,  with  the  riches  of  the  land. 
And  treasure  of  dear  lives,  till,  in  the  port. 
The  shouting  seaman  climbs  and  furls  the  sail. 

But  who  shall  bide  thy  tempest,  who  shall  face 
The  blast  that  wakes  the  fury  of  the  sea  ? 
Oh  God  !  thy  justice  makes  the  world  turn  pale, 
When  on  the  armed  fleet,  that  royally 
Bears  down  the  surges,  carrying  war,  to  smite 
Some  city,  or  invade  some  thoughtless  realm, 
Descends  the  fierce  tornado.     The  vast  hulks 
Are  whirled  like  chaff"  upon  the  waves  ;  the  sails 
Fly,  rent  like  webs  of  gossamer ;  the  masts 
Are  snapped  asunder ;  downward  from  the  decks. 
Downward  are  slung,  into  the  fathomless  gulf. 
Their  cruel  engines  ;  and  their  hosts,  arrayed 
In  trappings  of  the  battle-field,  are  whelmed 
By  whirlpools,  or  dashed  dead  upon  the  rocks. 


A  HYMN  OF  THE  SEA.  n 

Then  stand  the  nations  still  with  awe,  and  pause, 
A  moment,  from  the  bloody  work  of  war. 

These  restless  surges  eat  away  the  shores 
Of  earth's  old  continents  ;  the  fertile  plain 
Welters  in  shallows,  headlands  crumble  down. 
And  the  tide  drifts  the  sea-sand  in  the  streets 
Of  the  drowned  city.     Thou,  meanwhile,  afar 
In  the  green  chambers  of  the  middle  sea. 
Where  broadest  spread  the  waters  and  the  line 
Sinks  deepest,  while  no  eye  beholds  thy  work 
Creator  !  thou  dost  teach  the  coral  worm 
To  lay  his  mighty  reefs.    From  age  to  age. 
He  builds  beneath  the  waters,  till,  at  last. 
His  bulwarks  overtop  the  brine,  and  check 
The  long  wave  rolling  from  the  southern  pole 
To  break  upon  Japan.     Thou  bidd'st  the  fires 
That  smoulder  under  ocean,  heave  on  high 
The  new-made  mountains,  and  uplift  their  peaks, 
A  place  of  refuge  for  the  storm-driven  bird. 
The  birds  and  wafting  billows  plant  the  rifts 
With  herb  and  tree ;  sweet  fountains  gush  ;  sweet  airs 
Ripple  the  living  lakes  that,  fringed  with  flowers, 
Are  gathered  in  the  hollows.     Thou  dost  look 
On  thy  creation  and  pronounce  it  good. 
Its  valleys,  glorious  with  their  summer  green. 
Praise  thee  in  silent  beauty,  and  its  woods. 
Swept  by  the  murmuring  winds  of  ocean,  join 
The  murmuring  shores  in  a  perpetual  hymn. 


72  VOICES   OF  NATURE. 


THE  UNKNOWIsr  WAY. 

A  BURNING  sky  is  o'er  me, 
The  sands  beneath  me  glow, 
As  onward,  onward,  wearily, 
In  the  sultry  noon  I  go. 

From  the  dusty  path  there  opens, 

Eastward,  an  unknown  way  ; 
Above  its  windings,  pleasantly. 

The  woodland  branches  play. 

A  silvery  brook  comes  stealing 

From  the  shadow  of  its  trees, 
Where  slender  herbs  of  the  forest  stoop 

Before  the  entering  breeze. 

Along  those  pleasant  windings 

I  would  my  journey  lay. 
Where  the  shade  is  cool  and  the  dew  of  night 

Is  not  yet  dried  away. 

Path  of  the  flowery  woodland  ! 

Oh  whither  dost  thou  lead, 
Wandering  by  grassy  orchard  grounds 

Or  by  the  open  mead  ? 

Goest  thou  by  nestling  cottage  ? 

Goest  thou  by  stately  hall, 
Where  the  broad  elm  droops,  a  leafy  dome, 

And  woodbines  flaunt  on  the  wall  ? 


TEE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE  TBEE.         73 

By  steeps  where  children  gather 

Flowers  of  the  yet  fresh  year  ? 
By  lonely  walks  where  lovers  stray 

Till  the  tender  stars  appear  ? 

Or  haply  dost  thou  linger 

On  barren  plains  and  bare, 
Or  clamber  the  bald  mountain  side 

Into  the  thinner  air  ? 

Where  they  who  journey  upward 

Walk  in  a  weary  track, 
And  oft  upon  the  shady  vale 

With  longing  eyes  look  back  ? 

I  hear  a  solemn  murmur, 

And,  listening  to  the  sound, 
I  know  the  voice  of  the  mighty  sea. 

Beating  his  pebbly  bound. 

Dost  thou,  oh  path  of  the  woodland ! 

End  where  those  waters  roar, 
Like  human  life,  on  a  trackless  beach. 

With  a  boundless  Sea  before  ? 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE  TKEE. 

COME,  let  us  plant  the  apple  tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made  ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 


74  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle  sheet ; 

So  plant  we  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower. 

When  we  plant  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs. 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings. 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors  ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee. 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom. 

We  plant  with  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon. 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by. 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky. 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass. 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple  tree. 


TEE  FLANTINa  OF  TEE  APFLE  TREE.         75 

And  when,  above  this  apple  tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howhng  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth ; 

And  guests  in  prouder  liomes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine, 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple  tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple  tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple  tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple  tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom. 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple  tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple  tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 


76  VOICES  OF  NATURE, 

Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears, 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple  tree  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple  tree  ?  " 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 
And  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times  ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  the  apple  tree." 


ROBERT  OF  LIN"OOLK 

MERRILY  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Ghee,  chee,  chee. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN,  ^ 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding  coat ;  ♦ 

White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Look  what  a  jiice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sm*e  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life. 
Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings : 
Bob-oMink,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Brood,  kind  creature ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat ; 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man  ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay. 
Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight  t 


78  VOICES  OF  NATURE, 

There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-liuk,  bob-o'-Hnk, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice,  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out. 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spi»nk,  spank,  spink ; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care  ; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid. 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes ;  the  children  are  grown ; 

Fim  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 

Ofi*  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes  : 


AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY,  79 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


AN  INYITATIOIT  TO  THE  OOUNTRY. 

A    LREADY,  close  by  our  summer  dwelling, 
■**    The  Easter  sparrow  repeats  her  song ; 
A  merry  warbler,  she  chides  the  blossoms — 
The  idle  blossoms  that  sleep  so  long. 

The  blue-bird  chants,  from  the  elm's  long  branches, 
A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year. 

The  south  wind  wanders  from  field  to  forest, 
And  softly  whispers  :  The  Spring  is  here. 

Come,  daughter  mine,  from  the  gloomy  city. 
Before  those  lays  from  the  elm  have  ceased ; 

The  violet  breathes,  by  our  door,  as  sweetly 
As  in  the  air  of  her  native  East. 

Though  many  a  flower  in  the  wood  is  wakuig. 

The  daffodil  is  our  doorside  queen ; 
She  pushes  upward  the  sward  already. 

To  spot  with  sunshine  the  early  green. 

No  lays  so  joyous  as  these  are  warbled 
From  wiry  prison  in  maiden's  bower ; 

No  pampered  bloom  of  the  greenhouse  chamber 
Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flower. 


80 


VOICES  01  NATURE, 


Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season, 
And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days, 

Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom. 

Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye  ; 
There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes, 

Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by. 

Come,  Julia  dear,  for  the  sprouting  willows, 
The  opening  flowers,  and  the  gleaming  brooks, 

And  hollows,  green  in  the  sun,  are  waiting 
Their  dower  of  beauty  from  thy  glad  looks. 


TEE  SONG  OF  THE  SO  WEB.  81 


THE  SOIN'G  OF  THE  SOWER. 


rr^HE  maples  redden  in  the  sun ; 
-■-    In  autumn  gold  the  beeches  stand  ; 
Rest,  faithful  plough,  thy  work  is  done 

Upon  the  teeming  land. 
Bordered  with  trees  whose  gay  leaves  fly 
On  every  breath  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
The  fresh  dark  acres  furrowed  lie, 

And  ask  the  sower's  hand. 
Loose  the  tired  steer  and  let  him  go 
To  pasture  where  the  gentians  blow. 
And  we,  who  tiU  the  grateful  ground, 
Fling  we  the  golden  shower  around. 


Fling  wide  the  generous  grain ;  we  fling 
O'er  the  dark  mould  the  green  of  spring. 
For  thick  the  emerald  blades  shall  grow. 
When  first  the  March  winds  melt  the  snow. 
And  to  the  sleeping  flowers,  below. 

The  early  bluebirds  sing. 
Fling  wide  the  grain ;  we  give  the  fields 

The  ears  that  nod  in  summer's  gale, 
The  shining  stems  that  summer  ^Ids, 

The  harvest  that  o'erflows  the  vale. 
And  swells,  an  amber  sea,  between 
The  full-leaved  woods,  its  shores  of  green. 
6 


VOICES  OF  NATURE, 

Hark !  from  the  murmuring  clods  I  hear 
Glad  voices  of  the  coming  year ; 
The  song  of  him  who  binds  the  grain, 
The  shout  of  those  that  load  the  wain, 
And  from  the  distant  grange  there  comes 

The  clatter  of  the  thresher's  flail, 
And  steadily  the  millstone  hums 

Down  in  the  willowy  vale. 


Fling  wide  the  golden  shower ;  we  trust 
The  strength  of  armies  to  the  dust ; 
This  peaceful  lea  may  haply  yield 
Its  harvest  for  the  tented  field. 
Ha !  feel  ye  not  your  fingers  thrill. 

As  o'er  them,  in  the  yellow  grains. 
Glide  the  warm  drops  of  blood  that  fill, 

For  mortal  strife,  the  warrior's  veins ; 
Such  as,  on  Solferino's  day. 
Slaked  the  brown  sand  and  flowed  away  ;— 
Flowed  till  the  herds,  on  Mincio's  brink. 
Snuffed  the  red  stream  and  feared  to  drink  ;- 
Blood  that  in  deeper  pools  shall  lie 

On  the  sad  earth,  as  time  grows  gray. 
When  men  by  deadlier  arts  shall  die. 
And  deeper  darkness  blot  the  sky 

Above  the  thunderuig  fray ; 
And  realms,  that  hear  the  battle  cry, 

Shall  sicken  with  dismay ; 
And  chieftains  to  the  war  shall  lead 
Whole  nations,  with  the  tempest's  speed. 
To  perish  in  a  day ; — 


THE  80Na  OF  THE  SOWER,  83 

Till  man,  by  love  and  mercy  taught, 
Shall  rue  the  wreck  his  fury  wrought. 

And  lay  the  sword  away. 
Oh  strew,  with  pausing,  shuddering  hand, 
The  seed  upon  the  helpless  land, 
As  if,  at  every  step,  ye  cast 
The  pelting  hail  and  riving  blast. 


Nay,  strew,  with  free  and  joyous  sweep, 

The  seed  upon  the  expecting  soil ; 
For  hence  the  plenteous  year  shall  heap 

The  gamers  of  the  men  who  toil. 
Strew  the  bright  seed  for  those  who  tear 
The  matted  sward  with  spade  and  share, 
And  those  whose  sounding  axes  gleam 
Beside  the  lonely  forest  stream. 

Till  its  broad  banlis  lie  bare ; 
And  him  who  breaks  the  quarry-ledge. 

With  hammer-blows,  plied  quick  and  strong, 
And  him  who,  with  the  steady  sledge, 

Smites  the  shrill  anvil  all  day  long. 
Sprinkle  the  furrow's  even  trace 

For  those  whose  toiling  hands  uprear 
The  roof-trees  of  our  swarming  race. 

By  grove  and  plain,  by  stream  and  mere ; 
Who  forth,  from  crowded  city,  lead 

The  lengthening  street,  and  overlay 
Green  orchard  plot  and  grassy  mead 

With  pavement  of  the  murmuring  way. 
Cast,  with  full  hands,  the  harvest  cast. 
For  the  brave  men  that  climb  the  mast. 


84  VOICES  OF  NATVBE. 

When  to  the  billow  and  the  blast 
It  swings  and  stoops,  with  fearful  strain, 

And  bind  the  fluttering  mainsail  fast, 
Till  the  tossed  bark  shall  sit,  again, 
Safe  as  a  seabird  in  the  main. 


Fling  wide  the  grain  for  those  who  throw 
The  clanking  shuttle  to  and  fro, 
In  the  long  row  of  humming  rooms. 
And  into  ponderous  masses  wind 
The  web  that,  from  a  thousand  looms, 

Comes  forth  to  clothe  mankind. 
Strew,  with  free  sweep,  the  grain  for  them, 

By  whom  the  busy  thread 
Along  the  garment's  even  hem 

And  winding  seam  is  led  ; 
A  pallid  sisterhood,  that  keep 

The  lonely  lamp  alight. 
In  strife  with  weariness  and  sleep, 

Beyond  the  middle  night. 
Large  part  be  theirs  in  what  the  year 
Shall  ripen  for  the  reaper  here. 


Still  strew,  with  joyous  hand,  the  wheat 
On  the  soft  mould  beneath  our  feet ; 

For  even  now  I  seem 
To  hear  a  sound  that  lightly  rings 
From  murmuring  harp  and  viol's  strings. 

As  in  a  summer  dream. 


THE  80Na  OF  THE  80  WEB.  85 

The  welcome  of  the  wecfding  guest, 
The  bridegroom's  look  of  bashful  pride, 
The  faint  smile  of  the  pallid  bride, 

And  bridemaid's  blush  at  matron's  jest. 

And  dance  and  song  and  generous  dower. 

Are  in  the  shining  grains  we  shower. 


Scatter  the  wheat  for  shipwrecked  men. 
Who,  hunger-worn,  rejoice  again 

In  the  sweet  safety  of  the  shore. 
And  wanderers,  lost  in  woodlands  drear, 
Whose  pulses  bound  with  joy  to  hear 

The  herd's  light  bell  once  more. 

Freely  the  golden  spray  be  shed 
For  him  whose  heart,  when  night  comes  down 
On  the  close  alleys  of  the  town, 

Is  faint  for  lack  of  bread. 
In  chill  roof  chambers,  bleak  and  bare. 
Or  the  damp  cellar's  stifling  air, 
She  who  now  sees,  in  mute  despair, 

Her  children  pine  for  food, 
Shall  feel  the  dews  of  gladness  start 
To  lids  long  tearless,  and  shall  part 
The  sweet  loaf,  with  a  grateful  heart. 

Among  her  thin,  pale  brood. 
Dear,  kindly  Earth,  whose  breast  we  till ! 
Oh,  for  thy  famished  children,  fill, 

Where'er  the  sower  walks, 
ill!  the  rich  ears  that  shade  the  mould 
With  grain  for  grain,  a  hundredfold, 
To  bend  the  sturdy  stalks. 


86  VOICES  OF  NA  TUBE. 


Strew  silently  the  fruitful  seed, 

As  softly  o'er  the  tilth  ye  tread, 
For  hands  that  delicately  knead 

The  consecrated  bread, 
The  mystic  loaf  that  crowns  the  board, 
When,  round  the  table  of  their  Lord, 

Within  a  thousand  temples  set. 
In  memory  of  the  bitter  death 
Of  Him  who  taught  at  Nazareth, 

His  followers  are  met. 
And  thoughtful  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

As  of  the  Holy  One  they  think, 
The  glory  of  whose  rising  yet 

Makes  bright  the  grave's  mysterious  brink. 


Brethren,  the  sower's  task  is  done ; 
The  seed  is  in  its  winter  bed. 
Now  let  the  dark  brown  mould  be  spread. 

To  hide  it  from  the  sun. 
And  leave  it  to  the  kindly  care 
Of  the  still  earth  and  brooding  air ; 
As  when  the  mother,  from  her  breast, 
Lays  the  hushed  babe  apart  to  rest. 
And  shades  its  eyes  and  waits  to  see 
How  sweet  its  waking  smile  will  be. 

The  tempest  now  may  smite,  the  sleet 

All  night  on  the  drowned  furrow  beat, 
And  winds  that,  from  the  cloudy  hold 


TEE  SONG  OF  TEE  SO  WEB,  87 

Of  winter,  breathe  the  bitter  cold, 
Stiffen  to  stone  the  mellow  mould. 

Yet  safe  shall  lie  the  wheat ; 
Till,  out  of  heaven's  unmeasured  blue, 

Shall  walk  again  the  genial  year, 
To  wake  with  warmth  and  nurse  mth  dew 

The  germs  we  lay  to  slumber  here. 


Oh  blessed  harvest  yet  to  be  ! 

Abide  thou  with  the  love  that  keeps, 
In  its  warm  bosom,  tenderly. 

The  life  which  wakes  and  that  which  sleeps. 
The  love  that  leads  the  wilUng  spheres 
Along  the  unending  track  of  years. 
And  watches  o'er  the  sparrow's  nest. 
Shall  brood  above  thy  winter  rest, 
And  raise  thee  from  the  dust,  to  hold 

Light  whisperings  with  the  winds  of  May, 
And  fill  thy  spikes  with  living  gold, 

From  summer's  yellow  ray. 
Then,  as  thy  garners  give  thee  forth, 

On  what  glad  errands  shalt  thou  go, 
Wherever,  o'er  the  waiting  earth, 

Roads  wind  and  rivers  flow. 
The  ancient  East  shall  welcome  thee 
To  mighty  marts  beyond  the  sea. 
And  they  who  dwell  where  palm  groves  sound 
To  summer  winds  the  whole  year  round. 
Shall  watch,  in  gladness,  from  the  shore, 
The  sails  that  bring  thy  glittering  store. 


88  VOICES  OF  NATUBE. 


THE  NEW  AND  THE  OLD. 

■"^TEW  are  the  leaves  on  the  oaken  spray, 
-*^^    New  the  blades  of  the  silky  grass  ; 
Flowers,  that  were  buds  but  yesterday. 
Peep  from  the  ground  where'er  I  pass. 

These  gay  idlers,  the  butterflies, 

Broke,  to-day,  from  their  winter  shroud ; 

These  soft  airs,  that  winnow  the  skies. 
Blow,  just  born,  from  the  soft,  white  cloud. 

Gushing  fresh  in  the  little  streams. 
What  a  prattle  the  waters  make ! 

Even  the  sun,  with  his  tender  beams. 
Seems  as  young  as  the  flowers  they  wake. 

Children  are  wading,  with  cheerful  cries. 
In  the  shoals  of  the  sparkling  brook  ; 

Laughing  maidens,  with  soft,  young  eyes, 
Walk  or  sit  in  the  shady  nook. 

What  am  I  doing,  thus  alone. 

In  the  glory  of  nature  here, 
Silver-haired,  like  a  snow-flake  thrown 

On  the  greens  of  the  springing  year  ? 

Only  for  brows  unploughed  by  care, 
Eyes  that  glisten  with  hope  and  mirth. 

Cheeks  unwrinkled,  and  unblanched  hair. 
Shines  this  holiday  of  the  earth. 


THE  IVJEJW  AND  THE  OLD. 

Under  the  grass,  with  the  clammy  clay, 
Lie  in  darkness  the  last  year's  flowers, 

Bom  of  a  light  that  has  passed  away, 
Dews  long  dried,  and  forgotten  showers. 


90  V0IGE8  OF  FATXTBE. 

"  Under  the  grass  is  the  fitting  home," 
So  they  whisper,  "  for  such  as  thou, 
When  the  winter  of  life  is  come. 

Chilling  the  blood,  and  frosting  the  brow." 


THE  THIED  OF  ISTOYEMBER,  1861. 

SOFTLY  breathes  the  west  wind  beside  the  ruddy  forest, 
Taking  leaf  by  leaf  from  the  branches  where  he  flies. 
Sweetly  streams  the  sunshine,  this  third  day  of  November, 
Through  the  golden  haze  of  the  quiet  autumn  skies. 

Tenderly  the  season  has  spared  the  grassy  meadows, 

Spared  the  petted  flowers  that  the  old  world  gave  the  new, 

Spared  the  autumn  rose  and  the  garden's  group  of  pansies. 
Late-blown  dandelions  and  periwinkles  blue. 

On  my  cornice  linger  the  ripe  black  grapes  ungathered ; 

Children  fill  the  groves  with  the  echoes  of  their  glee. 
Gathering  tawny  chestnuts,  and  shouting  when  beside  them 

Drops  the  heavy  fruit  of  the  tall  black-walnut  tree. 

Glorious  are  the  woods  in  their  latest  gold  and  crimson. 
Yet  our  full-leaved  willows  are  in  their  freshest  green. 

Such  a  kindly  autumn,  so  mercifully  dealing 

With  the  growths  of  summer,  I  never  yet  have  seen. 

Like  this  kindly  season  may  life's  decline  come  o'er  me ; 

Past  is  manhood's  summer,  the  frosty  months  are  here ; 
Yet  be  genial  airs  and  a  pleasant  sunshine  left  me. 

Leaf,  and  fruit,  and  blossom,  to  mark  the  closing  year. 


THE  THIRD  OF  NOVEMBER,  1861.  91 

Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  flowers  of  earth  are  withered ; 

Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  woodland  leaves  are  cast, 
When,  upon  the  hillside,  all  hardened  into  iron, 

Howling,  like  a  wolf,  flies  the  famished  northern  blast. 

Dreary  are  the  years  when  the  eye  can  look  no  longer 
With  dehght  on  nature,  or  hope  on  human  kind  ; 

Oh  may  those  that  whiten  my  temples,  as  they  pass  me, 
Leave  the  heart  unfrozen,  and  spare  the  cheerful  mind. 


C       c  «  ««  « 

**   •  • 


HUMOROUS     POEMS. 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 


With  Illustrations  by  Sol  Eytinge,  Jr. 


BOSTON: 
FIELDS,    OSGOOD,    &    CO., 

SUCCESSORS   TO   TICKNOR   AND   FIELDS. 
1869. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University   Press  :   Welch,   Bigelow,   &  Co.. 
Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Ballad  op  the  Oysterman 5 

To  AN  Insect 7 

The  Dilemma 9 

Daily  Trials 11 

To  THE  Portrait  of  "A  Lady"    .        .        o        .        .        .        .13 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian 14 

The  Dorchester  Giant .        .16 

The  Mcsic-Grinders .         18 

The  September  Gale o        ...    21 

The  Toadstool aj 

The  Spectre  Pig 25 

The  Treadmill  Song 29 

My  Aunt 31 

Lines  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Festival        .        .        .        .         3? 

Verses  for  After-Dinner 35 

A  Song  for  the  Centenniax,  Celebration  of  Harvard  College    38 

Evening 40 

Nux  Postccenatica 42 

The  Stethoscope  Song    . 45 

On  lending  a  Punch-Bowl 49 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous .52 

Latter-Day  Warnings 53 

Prologue 55 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece:  or,  The  Wonderful  "One-Hoss  Shay"  58 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 62 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting         .        » 64 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy:  or,  The  President's  old  Arm-Chair    65 

Contentment 7^ 

De  Sauty •        •        •    74 


iv  CONTENTS. 

^Estivation .  77 

The  Old  Man  dreams «        .  78 

What  we  all  think 80 

The  Comet 82 

,  The  Last  Blossom 85 

'"  The  Boys  " 87 

A  Sea  Dialogue 89 

The  Jubilee 91 

The  Sweet  Little  Man       . 92 

Our  Oldest  Friend 95 

A  Farewell  to  Agassiz     .        .        ...        .        .  97 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


THE   BALLAD    OF   THE   OYSTERMAN. 

IT  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the  river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat  was  on  the  tide; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so  straight  and  slim. 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely  maid. 

Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a  sitting  in  the  shade ; 

He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  much  as  if  to  say, 

"  I  'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all  the  folks  away." 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself  said  he, 

"  I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiiF  at  home,  for  fear  that  folks  should  see ; 

I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss  his  dear, 

Leander  swam  the  Hellespont,  —  and  I  will  swim  this  here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed  the  shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
O  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words  as  soft  as  rain,  — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step,  and  in  he  leaps  again ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman, —  "O  what  was  that,  my  daughter?  " 
"  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw  into  the  water." 
"  And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that  paddles  off"  so  fast  ?  " 
"  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been  a  swimming  past." 


6  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "  Now  bring  me  my  harpoon  ! 
I  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow  soon."* 
Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a  snow-white  lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like  seaweed  on  a  clam. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones !  she  waked  not  from  her  swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the  waves  was  drowned ; 
But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of  their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mermaids  down  below. 


TO  AN  INSECT. 


TO^AN    INSECT. 

I  LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 
Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 
Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  Of  gentlefolks, — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  xin  undisputed  thing 
In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female.  Katydid ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill. 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea'? 

0  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live. 

And  what  did  Katy  do "? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  1 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man. 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me  !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 
My  fuss  vf\ih  little  Jane, 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locKs  of  black. 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill. 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun. 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice. 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid. 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE  DILEMMA, 


THE   DILEMMA. 


NOW,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark ; 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart  ; 
The  bright  black  eye,  the  melting  blue,  — 
I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams ;  — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams  ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung. 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung ; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eye, 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die ; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I  asked  a  matron  which  she  deemed 

With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed'; 

She  answered,  some  thought  both  were  fair,  — 

Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 

But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell. 

And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 

Came  marching  in,  —  their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  asked  a  maiden  ;  back  she  flung 

The  locks  that  roiyid  her  forehead  hung, 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 
Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 
On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 
I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze ; 
She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green ; 
She  looked  at  me ;  what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet. 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake ; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray. 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  tlie  while. 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


DAILY   TRIALS.  n 


DAILY  TRIALS. 

BY   A   SENSITIVE   MAN. 

O  THERE  are  times 
When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we  hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's  ear 
His  own  dull  chimes. 

Ding  dong !  ding  dong ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano,  — woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long  ! 

From  crib  to  shroud ! 
Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as  we  die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 

At  morning's  call 
The  small-voiced  pug-dog  welcomes  in  the  sun, 
And  flea-bit  mongrels,  wakening  one  by  one, 

Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 
Draws  round  us,  then  the  lonely  caterwaul, 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall,  — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar,  — 
Men,  plugless  word-spouts,  whose  deep  fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Children,  with  drums 
Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal  ass. 
Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 

Between  their  thumbs. 

Vagrants,  whose  arts 
Have  caged  some  devil  in  their  mad  machine. 
Which  grinding,  squeaks,  with  husky  groans  between, 

Come  out  by  starts. 

Cockneys  that  kill 
Thin  horses  of  a  Sunday,  —  men,  with  clams, 
Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their  dams 

From  hill  to  hill. 

Soldiers,  with  guns, 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-crying  bellmen,  children  in  despair, 

Screeching  for  buns. 

Storms,  thunders,  waves ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till  ye  get  your  fill ; 
Ye  sometimes  rest ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves. 


TO   THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "^  LADY:^  13 

TO  THE   PORTRAIT   OF   "A   LADY." 

IN  THE   ATHEN^UM   GALLERY. 

WELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 
I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 
In  such  a  stylish  frame ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 
You  had  your  portrait  done  I 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul ; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win ; 
I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love. 

Of  boys  that  go  about. 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum. 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  1 
I  'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white. 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face  ? 


14 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

I  love  sweet  features ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall. 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends ! 


REFLECTIONS   OF   A   PROUD   PEDESTRIAN. 

I  SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 
And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye. 
And  I  knew  that  he  thought  he  was  cutting  a  dash. 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 

Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 
And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 

To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is  still. 
On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  numbers, 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep. 

And  constables  cluster  around  him, 
And  he  shall  creep  from  the  wood-hole  deep 

Where  their  spectre  eyes  have  found  him ! 


REFLECTIONS   OF  A  PROUD  PEDESTRIAN.       15 


Ay  !  gather  your  reins,  and  crack  your  tliong, 

And  hid  your  steed  go  faster; 
He  does  not  know,  as  he  scramhles  along, 

That  he  has  a  fool  for  his  master : 


And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 

Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me ; 
I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 

-    With  the  tandem  that  nature  gave  me ! 


l6  HUMOROUS  POEMS, 


THE   DORCHESTER   GIANT. 

THERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 
A  mighty  one  was  he ; 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold ; 
And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 

And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king ; 

The  people  were  not  democrats  then. 

They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three, 

And  fastened  them  in  the  pen ; 
The  children  roared ;  quoth  the  giant,  "  Be  still !  '^ 
And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 

Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed  with  plums, 

As  big  as  the  State-House  dome ; 
Quoth  he,  "  There  's  something  for  you  to  eat ; 
So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection  treat, 

And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away ; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout. 
Said  he,   "  You  're  in,  and  you  can't  get  out, 

Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 


THE  DORCHESTER   GIANT. 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 

As  he  strode  the  fields  along ; 
'T  is  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 

When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story  's  true  or  not, 

It  is  not  for  me  to  show ; 
There  's  many  a  thing  that  ^s  twice  as  queer 
In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear. 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 

y^  v^  ^  ^  y^ 

What  are  those  lone  ones  doing  now, 
The  wife  and  the  children  sad  ? 

O,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 

Screaming,  and  throwing  their  pudding  about. 
Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills. 

They  flung  it  over  the  plain. 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw ; 

They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 

For  ages  have  floated  by ; 

The  suet  is  hard  as.  a  marrow-bone, 

And  every  plum  is  turned  to  a  stone, 

-  But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You  '11  ask  me  out  to  ride. 
The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell. 
And  you  shall  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 


17 


i8 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


THE    MUSIC-GRINDERS. 


THERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 
One's  money  from  his  purse, 
And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse ; 
But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 

And  counting  up  your  gains ; 
A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 

And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 
Another  hints  some  words  about 

A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It 's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 
In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS.  19 

It 's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine,  — 

Some  filthy  creature  begs 
You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs. 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife. 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents. 

All  clamorous  for  bread,  — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat. 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon  ; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  stili,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come. 
There  's  son^ething  like  a  human  voice. 

And  something  like  a  drum ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony. 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Poor  "  home,  sweet  home  "  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place ; 
Your  "  auld  acquaintance  "  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face ; 
Their  discords  sting  through  Burns  and  Moore, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clime, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark !  the  air  again  is  still. 

The  music  all  is  ground. 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound ; 
It  cannot  be,  —  it  is,  —  it  is,  — 

A  hat  is  going  round  I 

No !  Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw. 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear. 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man. 

Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 
And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town ; 
Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath. 

And  shut  the  window  down  ! 


THE  SEPTEMBER   GALE. 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 
Not  big  enough  for  that, 

Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech. 
Because  you  are  a  flat, 

Go  very  quietly  and  drop 
A  button  in  the  hat  1 


THE    SEPTEMBER   GALE. 

I'M  not  a  chicken ;  I  have  seen 
Full  many  a  chill  September, 
And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then. 

That  gale  I  well  remember ; 
The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped. 

And  I,  my  kite  pursuing. 
The  wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf  hat ; 
For  me  two  storms  were  brewing  I 

It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do, 

When  married  folks  get  clashing ; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two, 

Before  the  fire  was  flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds. 

Before  they  rent  asunder, — 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees. 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 

Lord  !  how  the  ponds  and  rivers  boiled, 
And  how  the  shingles  rattled ! 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

And  oaks  were  scattered  on  the  ground, 

As  if  the  Titans  battled  ; 
And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 

And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 
The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 

Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day. 

And  all  our  things  were  drying : 
The  storm  came  roaring  through  the  lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying ; 
I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticdats 

Go  riding  off  like  witches  ; 
I  lost,  ah  !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches  ! 

I  saw  them  straddling  through  the  air, 

Alas  !  too  late  to  win  them  ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds,  as  if 

The  Devil  had  been  in  them ; 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  pride. 

My  boyhood's  only  riches,  — 
"  Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried,  — 

"  My  breeches  !    O  my  breeches  I '' 

That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams. 

How  changed  from  what  I  knew  them  ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded  threads. 

The  winds  had  whistled  through  them ! 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 

Where  demon  claws  had  torn  them ; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part. 

As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 


THE   TOADSTOOL,  23 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But  those  young  pantaloons  have  gone 

Forever  and  forever ! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches. 
This  aching  heart  shall  cease  to  mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches  ! 


THE    TOADSTOOL. 

THERE  'S  a  thing  that  grows  by  the  fainting  flower. 
And  springs  in  the  shade  of  the  lady's  bower  ; 
The  lily  shrinks,  and  the  rose  turns  pale, 
When  they  feel  its  breath  in  the  summer  gale, 
And  the  tulip  curls  its  leaves  in  pride. 
And  the  blue-eyed  violet  starts  aside ; 
But  the  lily  may  flaunt,  and  the  tulip  stare, 
For  what  does  the  honest  toadstool  care '? 

She  does  not  glow  in  a  painted  vest. 
And  she  never  blooms  on  the  maiden's  breast ; 
But  she  comes,  as  the  saintly  sisters  do, 
In  a  modest  suit  of  a  Quaker  hue. 
And,  when  the  stars  in  the  evening  skies 
Are  weeping  dew  from  their  gentle  eyes. 
The  toad  comes  out  from  his  hermit  cell, 
The  tale  of  his  faithful  love  to  tell. 


24  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

O  there  is  light  in  her  lover's  glance, 
That  flies  to  her  heart  like  a  silver  lance  ; 
His  breeches  are  made  of  spotted  skin, 
His  jacket  is  tight,  and  his  pumps  are  thin ; 
In  a  cloudless  night  you  may  hear  his  song. 
As  its  pensive  melody  floats  along. 
And,  if  you  will  look  by  the  moonlight  fair, 
The  trembling  form  of  the  toad  is  there. 

And  he  twines  his  arms  round  her  slender  stem. 
In  the  shade  of  her  velvet  diadem  ; 
But  she  turns  away  in  her  maiden  shame. 
And  will  not  breathe  on  the  kindling  flame ; 
He  sings  at  her  feet  through  the  livelong  night, 
And  creeps  to  his  cave  at  the  break  of  light ; 
And  whenever  he  comes  to  the  air  above, 
His  throat  his  swelling  with  baffled  love. 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG. 


THE    SPECTRE   PIG. 


IT  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man, 
That  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 
And  said  the  gentle  Pig  must  die, 
And  sealed  it  with  a  vow. 

And  oh !  it  was  the  gentle  Pig 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  ah !  it  was  the  cruel  knife 
His  little  heart  that  found. 

They  took  him  then,  those  wicked  men, 
They  trailed  him  all  along ; 

They  put  a  stick  between  his  lips, 
And  through  his  heels  a  thong ; 

And  round  and  round  an  oaken  beam 
A  hempen  cord  they  flung, 

And,  like  a  mighty  pendulum, 
All  solemnly  he  swung ! 

Now  say  thy  prayers,  thou  sinful  man, 
And  think  what  thou  hast  done. 

And  read  thy  catechism  well. 
Thou  bloody-minded  one ; 

For  if  his  sprite  should  walk  by  night. 
It  better  were  for  thee, 
3 


25 


26  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

That  thou  wert  mouldering  in  the  ground, 
Or  bleaching  in  the  sea. 

It  was  the  savage  butcher  then. 
That  made  a  mock  of  sin. 

And  swore  a  very  wicked  oath, 
He  did  not  care  a  pin. 

It  was  the  butcher's  youngest  son,  — 
His  voice  was  broke  with  sighs. 

And  with  his  pocket-handkerchief 
He  wiped  his  little  eyes ; 

All  young  and  ignorant  was  he. 

But  innocent  and  mild, 
And,  in  his  soft  simplicity. 

Out  spoke  the  tender  child  :  — 

"  0  father,  father,  list  to  me ; 

The  Pig  is  deadly  sick. 
And  men  have  hung  him  by  his  heels. 

And  fed  him  with  a  stick.'' 


It  was  the  bloody  butcher  then, 

That  laughed  as  he  would  die. 

Yet  did  he  soothe  the  sorrowing  child, 
And  bid  him  not  to  cry ;  — 

"  O  Nathan,  Nathan,  what 's  a  Pig, 

That  thou  shouldst  weep  and  wail  ? 

Come,  bear  thee  like  a  butcher's  child. 
And  thou  shalt  have  his  tail !  " 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG.  27 

It  was  the  butcher's  daughter  then, 

So  slender  and  so  fair, 
That  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 

And  tore  her  yellow  hair ; 

And  thus  she  spoke  in  thrilling  tone,  — 

Fast  fell  the  tear-drops  big ;  — 
"  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !    Alas  !  Alas  ! 

The  Pig!    The  Pig!    The  Pig  !  " 

Then  did  her  wicked  father's  lips 

Make  merry  with  her  woe. 
And  call  her  many  a  naughty  name, 

Because  she  whimpered  so. 

Ye  need  not  weep,  ye  gentle  ones, 

In  vain  your  tears  are  shed. 
Ye  cannot  wash  his  crimson  hand, 

Ye  cannot  soothe  the  dead. 

The  bright  sun  folded  on  his  breast 

His  robes  of  rosy  flame. 
And  softly  over  all  the  west 

The  shades  of  evening  came. 

He  slept,  and  troops  of  murdered  Pigs 

Were  busy  with  his  dreams ; 
Loud  rang  their  wild,  unearthly  shrieks, 

Wide  yawned  their  mortal  seams. 

The  clock  struck  twelve ;  the  Dead  hath  heard ; 

He  opened  both  his  eyes. 
And  sullenly  he  shook  his  tail 

To  lash  the  feeding  flies. 


28  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

One  quiver  of  the  hempen  cord,  — 
One  struggle  and  one  bound,  — 

With  stiffened  limb  and  leaden  eye. 
The  Pig  was  on  the  ground ! 

And  straight  towards  the  sleeper's  house 
His  fearful  way  he  wended ; 

And  hooting  owl,  and  hovering  bat. 
On  midnight  wing  attended. 

Back  flew  the  bolt,  up  rose  the  latch. 

And  open  swung  the  door. 
And  little  mincing  feet  were  heard 

Pat,  pat  along  the  floor. 

Two  hoofs  upon  the  sanded  floor. 

And  two  upon  the  bed  ; 
And  they  are  breathing  side  by  side. 

The  living  and  the  dead  ! 

"  Now  wake,  now  wake,  thou  butcher  man ! 

What  makes  thy  cheek  so  pale? 
Take  hold  !  take  hold  !  thou  dost  not  fear 

To  clasp  a  spectre^s  tail '?  '* 

Untwisted  every  winding  coil ; 

The  shuddering  wretch  took  bold. 
All  like  an  icicle  it  seemed. 

So  tapering  and  so  cold. 

"  Thou  com'st  with  me,  thou  butcher  man !  " 
He  strives  to  loose  his  grasp. 

But,  faster  than  the  clinging  vine. 
Those  twining  spirals  clasp. 


THE   TREADMILL  SONG,  29 

And  open,  open  swung  the  door, 

And,  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
The  shadowy  spectre  swept  before, 

The  butcher  trailed  behind. 

Fast  fled  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  morn  rose  faint  and  dim; 
They  called  full  loud,  they  knocked  full  loTig, 

They  did  not  waken  him. 

Straight,  straight  towards  that  oaken  beam, 

A  trampled  pathway  ran  ; 
A  ghastly  shape  was  swinging  there,  — 

It  was  the  butcher  man. 


THE   TREADMILL   SONG. 

THE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 
The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 
Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs  1 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider  legs ; 


30  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

What  though  you  're  awkward  at  the  trade. 
There  's  time  enough  to  learn,  — 

So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 
And  take  another  turn. 

They  Ve  built  us  up  a  noble  wall. 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
"We  Ve  nothing  in  the  world  to  do. 

But  just  to  walk  about; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men. 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 
It 's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round    . 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes. 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here,  — 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs. 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear,  — 
He  's  lost  them  both,  —  don't  pull  his  hair. 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch. 
But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye. 

That  is  n't  in  the  patch. 

Hark  !  fellows,  there  *s  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done ; 
It 's  pretty  sport,  —  suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out. 

When  I  have  better  grown. 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own ! 


MY  AUNT. 


31 


MY  AUNT. 

IV/r  Y  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 
-L  VI  Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can  ; 

Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 


My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 
Her  hair  is  almost  gray ; 


32  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 
In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 

How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down. 
And  say  she  reads  as  well, 

When,  through  a  double  convex  lens. 
She  just  makes  out  to  spell '? 

Her  father,  —  grandpapa !  forgive 
This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 

Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 
Within  a  hundred  miles ; 


He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school  *, 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June ; 

And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 
**  Two  towels  and  a  spoon/* 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  lier  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small ; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair. 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins ;  — 
0  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track ;) 
"  Ah  !  "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 


LINES.  ^^ 


Alas !  nor  chacio^,- nor-barottche, 

No8  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomi^lished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  \ 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


LINES 

RECITED   AT  THE   BERKSHIRE   FESTIVAL. 

COME  back  to  your  mother,  ye  children,  for  shame, 
Who  have  wandered  like  truants,  for  riches  or  fame  \ 
With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in  her  cap, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful  lap. 

Come  out  from  your  alleys,  your  courts,  and  your  lanes, 
And  breathe,  like  young  eagles,  the  air  of  our  plains  ; 
Take  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your  excellent  wives 
Will  declare  it 's  all  nonsense  insuring  your  lives. 

Come  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk;  if  you  please. 
Till  the  man  of  the  moon  will  allow  it 's  a  cheese. 
And  leave  "  the  old  lady,  that  never  tells  lies," 
To  sleep  with  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes. 

Yc  healers  of  men,  for  a  moment  decline 
Your  feats  in  the  rhubarb  and  ipecac  line  t 


34  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

While  you  shut  up  your  turnpike,  your  neighbors  can  go, 
The  old  roundabout  road,  to  the  regions  below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of  pens. 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units  and  tens ; 
Though  Plato  denies  you,  we  welcome  you  still 
As  a  featherless  biped,  in  spite  of  your  quill. 

Poor  drudge  of  the  city !  how  happy  he  feels, 

With  the  burs  on  his  legs,  and  the  grass  at  his  heels ! 

No  dodger  behind,  his  bandannas  to  share. 

No  constable  grumbling,  "  You  must  n't  walk  there !  " 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito  and  brushes  a  tear ; 

The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and  shoots. 

He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and  his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard  by  the  old  church  \ 

That  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of  birch ; 

0  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks. 

Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had  so  many  "  big  licks.*' 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he  slumps, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were  pumps. 
Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed, 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his  head. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him  again  ; 
The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain  ; 
His  neckcloth  is  damp  with  an  easterly  flaw, 
And  he  holds  in  his  fingers  an  omnibus  straw. 


VERSES  FOE  AFTER-DINNER. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossomy  gale, 
That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear  native  vale ; 
And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  space  and  of  time, 
«  A  1.     Extra-super.     Ah,  is  n't  it  prime  !  " 

O  what  are  the  prizes  we  perish  to  win 

To  the  first  little  '<  shiner  "  wc  caught  with  a  pin ! 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 

As  the  soil  wc  first  stirred  in  terrestrial  pies  ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties,  and  parts,  to  our  feast ; 
Though  not  at  the  <^  Astor,"  we  '11  give  you  at  least 
A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass, 
And  the  best  of  old  —  water  —  at  nothing  a  glass. 


35 


VERSES   FOR  AFTER-DINNER. 

$  B   K   SOCIETY,    1844. 

I  WAS  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in  the  cars, 
With  the  charmingest  prospect  of  cinders  and  stars. 
Next  Thursday  is  —  bless  me !  —  how  hard  it  will  be. 
If  that  cannibal  president  calls  upon  me ! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  he  will  not  devour, 

From  a  tutor  in  seed  to  a  freshman  in  flower ; 

No  sage  is  too  gray,  and  no  youth  is  too  green. 

And  you  can't  be  too  plump,  though  you  're  never  too  lean. 


36  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

While  others  enlarge  on  the  boiled  and  the  roast, 
He  serves  a  raw  clergyman  up  with  a  toast, 
Or  catches  some  doctor,  quite  tender  and  young, 
And  basely  insists  on  a  bit  of  his  tongue. 

Poor  victim,  prepared  for  his  classical  spit. 

With  a  stuffing  of  praise,  and  a  basting  of  wit. 

You  may  twitch  at  your  collar,  and  wrinkle  your  brow. 

But  you  're  up  on  your  legs,  and  you  're  in  for  it  now. 

O  think  of  your  friends,  —  they  are  waiting  to  hear 
Those  jokes  that  are  thought  so  remarkably  queer ; 
And  all  the  Jack  Horners  of  metrical  buns 
Arc  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the  puns. 

Those  thoughts  which,  like  chickens,  will  always  thrive  best 

When  reared  by  the  heat  of  the  natural  nest. 

Will  perish  if  hatched  from  their  embryo  dream 

In  the  mist  and  the  glow  of  convivial  steam.  ♦ 

0  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  meekly  retire. 
With  a  very  small  flash  of  ethereal  fire ; 
No  rubbing  will  kindle  your  Lucifer  match. 

If  the^i^  does  not  follow  the  primitive  scratch. 

Dear  friends,  who  are  listening  so  sweetly  the  while, 
With  your  lips  double  reefed  in  a  snug  little  smile,  — 

1  leave  you  two  fables,  both  drawn  from  the  deep,  — 
The  shells  you  can  drop,  but  the  pearls  you  may  keep. 

The  fish  called  the  Flounder,  perhaps  you  may  know, 

Has  one  side  for  use  and  another  for  show ; 

One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown. 

And  one  that  is  white,  which  he  always  keeps  down. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER. 

A  very  young  flounder,  the  flattest  of  flats, 
(And  they  're  none  of  them  thicker  than  opera  hats,) 
Was  speaking  more  freely  than  charity  taught 
Of  a  friend  and  relation  that  just  had  been  caught. 

"  My  !  what  an  exposure  !  just  see  what  a  sight ! 

I  blush  for  my  race,  —  he  is  showing  his  white  ! 

Such  spinning  and  wriggling,  —  why,  what  does  he  wish  ? 

How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish !  '* 

Then  said  an  old  Sculpin,  —  "  My  freedom  excuse. 
But  you  're  playing  the  cobbler  with  holes  in  your  shoes  ; 
Your  brown  side  is  up,  — but  just  wait  till  you  're  tried 
And  you  '11  find  that  all  flounders  are  white  on  one  side." 

***** 
There 's  a  slice  near  the  Pickerel's  pectoral  fins, 
Where  the  tlwrax  leaves  off"  and  the  venter  begins ; 
Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks  and  lines, 
Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 

He  loves  his  relations  ;  he  feels  they  '11  be  missed ; 
But  that  one  little  titbit  he  cannot  resist ; 
So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no  matter  how  fast, 
For  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece  of  the  last. 

And  thus,  0  survivor,  whose  merciless  fate 
Is  to  take  the  next  hook  with  the  president's  bait, 
You  are  lost  while  you  snatch  from  the  end  of  his  line 
The  morsel  he  rent  from  this  bosom  of  mine  I 


37 


38  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

A   SONG 

FOR  THE   CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION   OF   HARVARD  COLLEGE, 

WHEN  the  Puritans  came  over, 
Our  hills  and  swamps  to  clear, 
The  woods  were  full  of  catamounts. 

And  Indians  red  as  deer, 
With  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives, 

That  make  folks^  heads  look  queer ;  — 
O  the  ship  from  England  used  to  bring 
A  hundred  wigs  a  year  ! 

The  crows  came  cawing  through  the  air 

To  pluck  the  pilgrims'  corn, 
The  bears  came  snuffing  round  the  door 

Whene'er  a  babe  was  born, 
The  rattlesnakes  were  bigger  round 

Than  the  but  of  the  old  ram's  horn 
The  deacon  blew  at  meeting  time 

On  every  "  Sabbath  "  morn. 

But  soon  they  knocked  the  wigwams  down. 
And  pine-tree  trunk  and  limb 
^  Began  to  sprout  among  the  leaves 
j^'  In  shape  of  steeples  slim ; 

^  And  out  the  little  wharves  were  stretched 
Along  the  ocean's  rim. 
And  up  the  little  school-house  shot 
To  keep  the  boys  in  trim. 


A   CENTENNIAL  SONG.  39 

And,  when  at  length  the  College  rdse, 

The  sachem  cocked  his  eye 
At  every  tutor's  meagre  ribs 

Whose  coat-tails  whistled  by  : 
But  when  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  words 

Came  tumbhng  from  their  jaws, 
The  copper-colored  children  all 

Ran  screaming  to  the  squaws. 

And  who  was  on  the  Catalogue 

When  college  was  begun  ? 
Two  nephews  of  the  President, 

And  the  Professor's  son  ; 
(They  turned  a  little  Indian  by, 

As  brown  as  any  bun  ;) 
Lord  !  how  the  seniors  knocked  about 

The  freshman  class  of  one  ! 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 

That  commons  now  afford. 
But  succotash  and  homony 

Were  smoking  on  the  board  ; 
They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 

Or  dash  in  long-tail  blues, 
But  always  on  Commencement  days 

The  tutors  blacked  their  shoes. 


God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans  ! 

Their  lot  was  hard  enough  ; 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms. 

And  tender  maids  are  tough ; 
So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 

Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 

The  British  found  so  rough ! 


^ 


40 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


EVENING. 


BY  A  TAILOK. 


DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre  ribs. 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe  ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads. 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 


Ha  !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch. 
So  like  a  cushion  ?    Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower. 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with  ;  —  but  yet  I  love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 


EVENING. 

As  these,  thy  puny  brethren  ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan,  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird. 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose ; 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger. 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father. 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors  ; 

They  had  an  ancient  goose,  —  it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it. 

And  it  did  burn  me,  —  oh,  most  fearfully  ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth. 
The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit. 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress. 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom ;  —  I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me  ;  —  I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets. 


41 


42  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 


NUX   POSTCCENATICA. 

I  WAS  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon  my  parlor  rug, 
With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very  lively  bug ; 
The  true  bug  had  been  organized  with  only  two  antennae, 
But  the  humbug  in  the  copper-plate  would  have  them  twice  as  many. 

And  I  thought,  like  Dr.  Faustus,  of  the  emptiness  of  art, 
How  we  take  a  fragment  for  the  whole,  and  call  the  whole  a  part, 
When  I  heard  a  heavy  footstep  that  was  loud  enough  for  two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming,  —  **  How  d'  ye  do  ?  " 

He  was  not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but  solid  flesh  and  bone ; 

He  wore  a  Palo  Alto  hat,  his  weight  was  twenty  stone ; 

(It 's  odd  how  hats  expand  their  brims  as  riper  years  invade, 

As  if  when  life  had  reached  its  noon,  it  wanted  them  for  shade !) 

I  lost  my  focus,  —  dropped  my  book,  —  the  bug,  who  was  a  flea, 
At  once  exploded,  and  commenced  experiments  on  me. 
They  have  a  certain  heartiness  that  frequently  appalls,  — 
Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semilunar  smalls ! 

"  My  boy,''  he  said,  —  (colloquial  ways,  — ■  the  vast,  broad-hatted 

man,)  — 
"  Come  dine  with  us  on  Thursday  next,  —  you  must,  you  know 

you  can ; 


NUX  POSTCCENATICA, 


43 


We  're  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with  lots  of  fun  and  noise, 
Distinguished  guests,  et  cetera,  the  Judge,  and  all  the  boys." 

Not  so,  —  I  said,  —  my  temporal  bones  are  showing  pretty  clear 
It 's  time  to  stop, — just  look  and  see  that  hair  above  this  ear; 
My  golden  days  are  more  than  spent,  —  and,  what  is  very  strange, 
If  these  are  real  silver  hairs,  I  'm  getting  lots  of  change. 

Besides  —  my  prospects  —  don't   you  know   that   people   won't 

employ 
A  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by  laughing  like  a  boy  ? 
And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  a  shoot. 
As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  flourish  at  its  root  1 

It 's  a  very  fine  reflection,  when  you  'ro  etching  out  a  smile 
On  a  copper-plate  of  faces  that  would  stretch  at  least  a  mile, 
That,  what  with  sneers  from  enemies,  and  cheapening  shrugs  of  • 

friends. 
It  will  cost  you  all  the  earnings  that  a  month  of  labor  lends  ! 

It 's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,  when  you  're  screwing  out  a  laugh. 
That  your  very  next  year's  income  is  diminished  by  a  half. 
And  a  little  boy  trips  barefoot  that  Pegasus  may  go. 
And  the  baby's  milk  is  watered  that  your  Helicon  may  flow ! 

No  ;  —  the  joke  lias  been  a  good  one,  —  but  I  'm  getting  fond  of 

quiet. 
And  I  don't  like  deviations  from  my  customary  diet ; 
So  I  think  I  will  not  go  with  you  to  hear  the  toasts  and  speeches. 
But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and  have  some  pig  and  peaches. 

The  fat  man  answered  :  —  Shut  your  mouth,  and  hear  the  genuine 

creed ; 
The  true  essentials  of  a  feast  are  only  fun  and  feed ; 


44  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round  delights  in  spinning  tops, 
And  that  young  earthquake  t'  other  day  was  great  at  shaking  props. 

I  tell  you  what,  philosopher,  if  all  the  longest  heads 
That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in  stretching  on  their  beds 
Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I  M  heat  those  fine  old  folks 
With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and  twenty  clever  jokes  ! 

Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the  company  would  beg 
He  \l  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of  balancing  the  egg  ! 
Milton  to  Stilton  would  give  in,  and  Solomon  to  Salmon, 
And  Koger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis  Bacon  gammon  ! 

And  as  for  all  the  "  patronage  "  of  all  the  clowns  and  boors 
That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at  any  freak  of  yours, 
Do  leave  them  to  your  prosier  friends,  —  such  fellows  ought  to  die 
When  rhubarb  is  so  very  scarce  and  ipecac  so  high  ! 

And  so  I  come,  —  like  Lochinvar,  to  tread  a  single  measure, 
To  purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread  a  sugar-plum  of  pleasure, 
To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that 's  run  for  after  dinner, 
Which  yields  a  single  sparkhng  draught,  then  breaks  and  cuts  the 


Ah,  that  ^s  the  way  delusion  comes,  —  a  glass  of  old  Madeira, 
A  pair  of  visual  diaphragms  revolved  by  Jane  or  Sarah, 
And  down  go  vows  and  promises  without  the  slightest  question 
If  eating  words  won't  compromise  the  organs  of  digestion  ! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  beside  my  nursing  mother, 
Where  every  stranger  seems  a  friend,  and  every  friend  a  brother, 
I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided)  o'er  me  stealing,  — 
The  warm,  champagny,  old-particular,  brandy-punchy  feeling. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG.  45 

We  're  all  alike ;  —  Vesuvius  flings  the  scoriae  from  his  fountain, 
But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain  back  to  the  burning  moun- 
tain ; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our  precious  Alma  Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the  dear  old  crater. 


THE   STETHOSCOPE   SONG. 

A  PROFESSIONAL   BALLAD. 

THEEE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town. 
He  bought  him  a  Stethoscope  nice  and  new, 
All  mounted  and  finished  and  polished  down. 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl. 

And  spun  a  web  of  ample  size. 
Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 

A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue. 

The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and  long ; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 

Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently. 

This  fine  young  man  would  show  his  skill ; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 


46  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  hile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing  all  the  while 

He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to  his  eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause ; 

Said  he,  —  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 

To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well ; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 

And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear ; 

Mon  Dieu !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 

Why  here  is  a  sound  that 's  mighty  queer ! 

The  hourdonnement  is  very  clear,  — 

Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive  ! 
Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear ; 

Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There  's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt ; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side.  — 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out, 

They  tapped  the  patient ;  so  he  died. 

'*'     Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 
Began  to  look  extremely  glum  ; 
They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for  boys, 

And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a  hum. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG.  47 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  Jong  been  sick, 

And  what  was  the  matter  none  did  know : 

Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was  quick ; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat. 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row ; 
She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was  at, 

To  thump  her  and  tumble  her  ruffles  so. 

Now,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out. 

The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz ;  — 
O  ho !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt ; 

An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  and  the  bruit  de  scie 

And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  combined ; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be. 

If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find ! 

Now,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 

A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried. 
They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 

In  squads  of  twenty;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail. 

Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares ; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 

And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "  sighs  "  and  "  skies,*' 
And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered  rolls, 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  surprise, 

On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and  coals. 


48  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more ; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 

The  rale  sifflant,  and  rale  sonore. 

He  shook  his  head ;  —  there 's  grave  disease,  - 
I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die ; 

A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please. 
Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 

Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men, 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed. 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down ; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 

• 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise, 

That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore. 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 

■  But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 

Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young  man 

By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL, 


49 


ON    LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL. 

THIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  —  it  tells  of  good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas  chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave,  and  true. 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl  was  new. 


A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar,  —  so  runs  the  ancient  tale ; 
'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was  like  a 

flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his  strength 

should  fail. 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flemish  ale. 


50 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his  loving  dame. 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the  same ; 
And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 
'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed  smoking 
round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan  divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine. 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and  schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's  next,  —  it  left  the  Dutch- 
man's shore 

With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  —  a  hundred  souls  and 
more,  — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes,  — 

To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred  loads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing  dim. 
When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it  to  the  brim ; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about  the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in,  —  the  man.  that  never  feared,  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his  yellow  beard ; 
And  one  by  one   the   musketeers  —  the  men    that   fought   and 

prayed  — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild  halloo; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith  and  kin, 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of  Hollands 
gin !  " 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL,  51 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's  nose. 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth  or  joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting  boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good,  —  poor  child,  you  '11 

never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight  air ; 
And  if —  God  bless  me  !  —  you  were  hurt,  't  would  keep  away  the 

chill ; 
So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at  Bunker's 

Hill! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  English  cheer ; 
I  tell  you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol  here. 
'T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess  ;  —  hast  thou  a  drunken  soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past,  —  its  pressed  yet  fragrant  flow- 
ers,— 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  —  the  ivy  on  its  towers  ;  — 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed,  —  my  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to  me ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be  ; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin, 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words,  —  "■  My  dear,  where  have 
you  been  1 " 


52  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


THE    HEIGHT   OF   THE    RIDICULOUS. 

I  WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die  ; 
Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I. 


I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him. 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb  ! 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed. 
And,  in  my  humorous  way, 


LATTER-DAY   WARNINGS. 

I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched. 
And  saw  him  peep  within  ; 

At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 
Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 
And  shot  from  ear  to  ear ; 

He  read  the  third  ;  a  chuckling  noise 
I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar  ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split  ; 
The  sixth ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man, 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 


53 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

WHEN  legislators  keep  the  law. 
When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks,  — 
When  berries  —  whortle,  rasp,  and  straw  — 
Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box,  — 


54 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give. 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  - 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live. 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience'  sake,  - 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof. 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 

The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 
And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal. 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Kolls  through  the  Hoosac  tunnel's  bore ;  - 


PROLOGUE. 

Till  then  let  Cumming  blaze  away, 

And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe  ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 


PROLOGUE. 

A  PROLOGUE  1     Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know  ;  - 
I  have  my  doubts.     No  matter,  —  here  we  go  ! 
What  is  a  Prologue  1     Let  our  Tutor  teach  : 
Pro  means  beforehand ;  logos  stands  for  speech. 
'T  is  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the  strings. 
The  prima  donna's  courtesy  ere  she  sings  :  — 
Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 

"  The  world  's  a  stage,"  —  as  Shakespeare  said,  one  day ; 

The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant  to  say. 

The  outside  world  's  a  blunder,  that  is  clear ; 

The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 

Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma ;  , 

Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa; 

Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are  paid. 

The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid ; 

One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 

Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 

When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all. 

Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 

Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief. 

And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief. 


55 


56  HUMOROUS  POEMS, 

When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  screech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 

Cries,  <<  Help,  kyind  Heaven  !  "  and  drops  upon  her  knees 

On  the  green  —  baize,  —  beneath  the  (canvas)  trees,  — 

See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly :  — 

"  Ha !  Villain  !  Draw  !     Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or  die !  " 

When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 

Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionnaire. 

Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy. 

Sobs  on  his  neck,  ''My  hoy  I   My  boy  !  !   MY  BOY  ! ! !  " 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night, 

Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 

Ladies,  attend !     While  woful  cares  and  doubt 

Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without. 

Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 

One  thing  is  certain  :  Love  will  triumph  here  ! 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 

The  world's  great  masters,  when  you  're  out  of  school,  — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play  : 

Man  has  his  will,  —  but  woman  has  her  way  ! 

While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire. 

Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire,  — 

The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 

Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 

But  that  one  rebel,  —  woman's  wilful  heart. 

All  foes  you  master ;  but  a  woman's  wit 

Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you  're  hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do. 

Hear  an  old  story,  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade. 
Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 


PROLOGUE. 

One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 

Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 

Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy-browed, 

Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 

His  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden  gleam, 

As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade ;  he  turned  as  if  to  go ; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

"  Why  strikest  not  1     Perform  thy  murderous  act," 

The  prisoner  said.     (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 

"  Friend,  I  have  struck,"  the  artist  straight  replied  ; 

"  Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 

He  held  his  snufF-box,  —  "  Now  then,  if  you  please !  " 

The  prisoner  sniff'ed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 

Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along  the  floor,  — 

Bounced  down  the  steps ;  —  the  prisoner  said  no  more  ! 

Woman  !  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye  ; 
If  death  lurk  in  it,  O  how  sweet  to  die  ! 
Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head ; 
We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we  're  dead ! 


57 


58  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


THE    DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE: 

OR,  THE    WONDERFUL    *^ONE-HOSS    SHAY.'* 
A  LOGlCALi  STORY. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it ah,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  dehiy, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snufiy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still, 
.   Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  h-eahs  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum/'  or  an  "  I  tell  3/eow/') 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown  : 
—  "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain. 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum,"  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  — they  could  n't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery -tips ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too. 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide ; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  '^  put  her  through."  — 

"  There  !  "  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she  '11  dew  !  " 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 


59 


6o  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  hundred  ;  — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ;  — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ;  — 
Kunning  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November,  —  the  Earthquake-day 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 

But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills. 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills. 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor. 

And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.  6l 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out  I 

First  of  November,  'Fifty -five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddup  !  "  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — 
Had  got  to  Jifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still. 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock. 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet^nMiouse  clock,  — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around "? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound. 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 


62 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


THE   OLD    MAN    OF   THE    SEA. 

A  NIGHTMARE    DREAM   BY   DAYLIGHT. 

DO  you  know  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea  ? 
Have  you  met  with  that  dreadful  old  man  ? 
If  you  have  n't  been  caught,  you  will  be,  you  will  be ; 
For  catch  you  he  must  and  he  can. 

He  does  n't  hold  on  by  your  throat,  by  your  throat, 

As  of  old  in  the  terrible  tale ; 
But  he  grapples  you  tight  by  the  coat,  by  the  coat, 

Till  its  buttons  and  button-holes  fail. 


There 's  the  charm  of  a  snake  in  his  eye,  in  his  eye, 

And  a  polypus-grip  in  his  hands ; 
You  cannot  go  back,  nor  get  by,  nor  get  by, 

If  you  look  at  the  spot  where  he  stands. 


THE   OLD  MAN    OF   THE  SEA.  63 

O,  you  're  grabbed !    See  his  claw  on  your  sleeve,  on  your  sleeve ! 

It  is  Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  ! 
You  're  a  Christian,  no  doubt  you  believe,  you  believe : 

You  're  a  martyr,  whatever  you  be  ! 

—  Is  the  breakfast-hour  past  1     They  must  wait,  they  must  wait, 
While  the  coffee  boils  sullenly  down. 

While  the  Johnny-cake  burns  on  the  grate,  on  the  grate, 
And  the  toast  is  done  frightfully  brown. 

—  Yes,  your  dinner  will  keep  ;  let  it  cool,  let  it  cool. 
And  Madam  may  worry  and  fret. 

And  children  half-starved  go  to  school,  go  to  school ; 
He  can't  think  of  sparing  you  yet. 

—  Hark  !  the  bell  for  the  train  !     '<  Come  along  !     Come  along  ! 
For  there  is  n't  a  second  to  lose." 

"All  aboard!"     (He  holds  on.)     "Fsht!  ding-dong!     Fsht ! 
ding-dong  ! "  — 
You  can  follow  on  foot,  if  you  choose. 

—  There 's  a  maid  with  a  cheek  like  a  peach,  like  a  peach. 
That  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  church  ;  — 

But  he  clings  to  your  side  like  a  leech,  like  a  leech, 
.  And  you  leave  your  lost  bride  in  the  lurch. 

—  There  's  a  babe  in  a  fit,  —  hurry  quick  !  hurry  quick ! 
To  the  doctor's  as  fast  as  you  can  ! 

The  baby  is  off,  while  you  stick,  while  you  stick, 
In  the  grip  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man ! 

—  I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  the  Bore,  of  the  Bore ; 
The  voice  of  the  Simple  I  know ; 


64  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

I  have  welcomed  the  Flat  at  my  door,  at  my  door ; 
I  have  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Slow  ; 


I  have  walked  like  a  lamb  by  the  friend,  by  the  friend. 

That  stuck  to  my  skirts  like  a  bur ; 
I  have  borne  the  stale  talk  without  end,  without  end. 

Of  the  sitter  whom  nothing  could  stir : 

But  my  hamstrings  grow  loose,  and  I  shake,  and  I  shake, 

At  the  sight  of  the. dreadful  Old  Man; 
Yea,  I  quiver  and  quake,  and  I  take,  and  I  take, 

To  my  legs  with  what  vigor  I  can ! 

O  the  dreadful  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea ! 

He  's  come  back  like  the  Wandering  Jew ! 
He  has  had  his  cold  claw  upon  me,  upon  me,  — 

And  be  sure  that  he  '11  have  it  on  you ! 


ODE   FOR  A   SOCIAL  MEETING. 

WITH    SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS    BY  A  TEETOTALER. 

COME  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  —  for  why  should  we  go 
logwood 

While  the  nectar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flow ; 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rich  juices  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubies  shall  run. 


PARSON  TURELD8  LEGACY.  65 

half-ripened  apples 

The  purplo  giobod  olniitors  their  life-dews  have  bled ; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  brimtli  of  the  fragrauco  tiiey  &hod  ! 

rank  poison  s  wines  !  !  ! 

For  summer's  lnot  roocG  lie  hid  in  the  wioes 

stable-boys  smoking  long-nines 

That  were  garnered  by  maidens  wke  laughed-  tbfo^  the  \4ae6. 

scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a  smile,  and  a  ^^^,  and  a  ^^^^,  and  a  cheer, 

strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

For  all  tbe  good  wk^e,  and  wq  '\z  come  of  it  here 4 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  ns  oil ! 

ImOHQ  live  the  '^^^y  Bervaat,  that  laughs  fgr  ns  all ! 


PARSON   TURELL'S    LEGACY: 

OR,   THE  president's   OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

A  MATHEMATICAL   STORY. 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 
At  Cambridge.    Is  kept  in  the  College  there. 
Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That 's  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Ilolyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 


66  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Know  old  Cambridge  '?     Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there  1     Don't  say  so  !     I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 
"  Gambrel  ?  —  Gambrel  ?  "  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That 's  the  gambrel ;  hence  gambrel-roof.) 

—  Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green. 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 

In  a  quiet  slumber  lies. 

Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 

Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand ; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 
One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four,  — 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor : 
Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more. 
Wandering  off*  from  shore  to  shore 
,   With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 

—  Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play ;  — 
Better  keep  your  girls  away ; 
Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 

Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 


PARSON   TURELDS  LEGACY.  67 

And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 

With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there ;  — 
I  'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 
You  Ve  heard,  no  doubt,  of  Parson  Turell  ? 
Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell ; 
Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk  ; 
Got  with  his  w^ife  a  chair  of  oak,  — 
Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 
Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 
One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 
Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings,  — 
But  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand,  — 
Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  —      ^ 
Chief  Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 
Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  —  and  lie  — in. 
—  Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a  certain  student,  —  Smith  by  name ; 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told : 
"  Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde  ; 
When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 
To  y*  oldest  Youth  in  y«  Senior  Classe. 
On  Payment  of" —  (naming  a  certain  sum)  — 
"  By  him  to  whom  y*  Chaire  shall  come ; 
He  to  y«  oldest  Senior  next, 
And  soe  forever,"  —  (thus  runs  the  text,)  — 
"  But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to  claime. 
That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same." 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  Browns,     , 
And  took  his  money,  —  five  silver  crowns. 
Brown  delivered  it  up  to  Moore, 
Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 


68  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  Lee, 
Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 
Lee  conveyed  it  unto  Drew, 
And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 
Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  Dunn,  — 
All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 
Dunn  released  the  chair  to  Hall, 
And  got  hy  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 
—  And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  Brown, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  Ware, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair. 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair ; 
And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 
He  paid  one  Potter,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  Robinson  ;  five  got  Dix ; 
Johnson  primus  demanded  six  ; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

—  When  paper  money  became  so  cheap. 
Folks  would  n't  count  it,  but  said  "  a  heap," 
A  certain  Richards,  —  the  books  declare,  — 
(A.  M.  in  '90  ?     I  Ve  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  —  name  not  there,)  — 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eight  score  pounds,  but  would  have  ten ; 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Not  quite  certain,  —  but  ^ee  the  book. 
r-  By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet. 
But  saddled  with  such  a  monstrous  debt ! 


PARSON  TURELDS  LEGACY.  69 

Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair ! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 
Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell. 
What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For  the  chair  was  a  kind  of  nightmare  curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 
They  got  old  Governor  Hancock  out. 
The  Governor  came  with  his  Light-horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop ; 
Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 
French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew. 
The  yellow  fifes  whistled  beneath  their  teeth 
And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed  beneath ; 
So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 
Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 

—  The  Governor  "  hefted '"  tbe  crowns,  and  said,  — 
*'  A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson  's  dead.'' 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.     Said  he,  — 
*'  There  is  your  p'int     And  here 's  my  fee. 
These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 
On  such  conditions  I  break  the  will  !  '* 
The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 
(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you  '11  see.) 
The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 
And  the  Governor  rose  and  broke  the  will  ! 

—  "  About  those  conditions  ?  "    Well,  now  you  go 
And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11  know. 
Once"  a  year,  on  Commencement  day. 

If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 


70 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  Chair, 
Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 
The  President  rises ;  both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 
Is  this  :  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair'? 
And  then  his  Excellency  bows. 
As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 
The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name ; 
He  bows  like  t'  other,  which  means  the  same. 
And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 
And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 
And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  !     Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 
Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 
To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die. 
With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 
That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat ; 
For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n't  spill, 
And  there 's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's  will ! 


CONTENTMENT. 
CONTENTMENT. 

**  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

LITTLE  I  ask ;  ray  wants  are  few ; 
I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ;  — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  —  some  note  of  hand. 

Or  trifling  railroad  share, — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know. 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names ; 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo, 

But  only  near  St.  James ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 


71 


72  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Jewels  are  bawbles ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so. 
Will  do  for  me ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare ; 
An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty-five  — 

Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape,  — foreground  golden  dirt, — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam. 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 


contentm:ent. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please. 

And  selfish  churls  deride ;  — 
One  Stradivari  us,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn. 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die. 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  muchj  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 


73 


74 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


DE    SAUTY. 


AN  ELECTKO-CHEMICAL  ECLOGUE. 

Professor.  Blue-Nose. 

PROFESSOR. 

TELL  me,  0  Provincial !  speak,  Ceruleo-Nasal ! 
Lives  there  one  De  Sauty  extant  now  among  you, 
Whispering  Boanerges,  son  of  silent  thunder. 
Holding  talk  with  nations  ? 


DE  SAUTY. 

Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft  like  mortals,  dormient  in  night-cap, 
Having  sight,  smell,  hearing,  food-receiving  feature 
Three  times  daily  patent  ? 

Breathes  there  such  a  being,  O  Ceruleo-Nasal  ? 

Or  is  he  a  mythus,  —  ancient  word  for  "  humbug," 

Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that  wet-nursed 
Romulus  and  Remus  ? 

Was  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged  De  Sauty  ? 
Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action. 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse^s  flint-solution  ? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 

BLUE-NOSE. 

Many  things  thou  askest,  jackknife-bearing  stranger. 
Much-conjecturing  mortal,  pork-and-treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit  thy  whittling,  wheel  thine  ear-flap  toward  me. 
Thou  shalt  hear  them  answered. 

When  the  charge  galvanic  tingled  through  the  cable. 
At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man  among  us : 
Called  himself  "  De  Sauty." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch  maternal 
Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the  term  inammalia, 
So  the  unknown  stranger  held  the  wire  electric. 
Sucking  in  the  current. 

When  the  current  strengthened,  bloomed  the  pale-faced  stranger. 
Took  no  drink  nor  victual,  yet  grew  fat  and  rosy,  — 
And  from  time  to  time,  in  sharp  articulation. 
Said,  "All right!     De  Sauty." 


75 


76  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

From  the  lonely  station  passed  the  utterance,  spreading 
Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks  to  the  groves  of  steeples, 
Till  the  land  was  filled  with  loud  reverberations 
Of  "  All  right !     De  Sauty." 

When  the  current  slackened,  drooped  the  mystic  stranger,  — 
Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew  weaker,  — 
Wasted  to  a  shadow,  with  a  hartshorn  odor 
Of  disintegration. 

Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened  on  his  forehead, 
Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of  efflorescence, 
Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow  suspended. 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 
C.  0.  H.  N.  Ferrum,  Chlor.  Flu.  Sil.  Potassa, 
Calc.  Sod.  Phosph.  Mag.  Sulphur,  Mang.  (?)  Alumin.C?)  Cuprum,(!) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had  perished ! 
There  is  no  De  Sauty  now  there  is  no  current ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11  hear  him 
Cry,  <(  All  right !     De  Sauty.'' 


AESTIVATION.  J  J 


ESTIVATION. 


AN  UNPUBLISHED   POEM,   BY  MY  LATE   LATIN  TUTOR. 

IN  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rames ; 
His  humid  front  the  cive,  aiiheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise. 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine ! 

To  me,  alas !  no  verdurous  visions  come. 
Save  yon  exiguous  pool's  conferva-scum,  — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue! 

Me  wretched  !     Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades  ! 
EfFund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids ! 
O,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump,  — 
Depart,  —  be  ofl^,  —  excede,  —  evade,  —  erump ! 


78  HUMOROUS  POEMS, 


THE   OLD    MAN    DREAMS. 

OrOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring ! 
I M  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy 
Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king  ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down ! 

One  moment  let  my  hfe-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 

—  My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished  for  day  ?  " 

—  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind ! 
Without  thee,  w^hat  were  life  ? 

One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind : 
I  '11  take  —  n.y  —  precious  —  wife ! 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS.  79 

—  The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too !  " 


—  "  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 

Before  the  change  appears  1 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  those  dissolving  years  !  " 

Why,  yes ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys  ! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen, — 

"  Why,  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  ! " 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


8o  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


WHAT  WE   ALL   THINK. 

THAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 
Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow  ; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "  good  old  days  " 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That  —  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 
The  "  best  of  women  ''  each  has  known. 

Were  schoolboys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown  ! 

That  hut  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  hut  for  that  our  lives  were  blest; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "  a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more. 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 


WHAT   WE  ALL    THINK,  8 1 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 

The  angels  hovering  overhead 
Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 

And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 

And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door. 
They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 

"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more  !  " 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 

Overhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 
Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 

Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 

All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above. 
Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 

Can  burn  or  blot  it :   God  is  Love  ! 


82 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


THE    COMET. 

THE  Comet !     He  is  on  his  way. 
And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies ; 
Ah  !  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue. 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 
Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail ! 


On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light. 
He  flashes  and  he  flames ; 

He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 
He  asks  them  not  their  names ; 

One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — 
Away,  away  they  fly. 


THE   COMET.  83 

^here  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 
And  sold  for  "  Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil. 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam ; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy  ; 
I  heard  a  scream,  —  the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye  ; 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green  ; 
Pop  cracked  the  guns  !  whiz  flew  the  balls ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub, 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"  The  Dream  of  Beelzebub  "  ; 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn. 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines. 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines ; 


84  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town ; 
They  answered  not,  —  but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg  ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg ; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother^s  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze ; 
I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags. 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul ; 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 

Strange  sights  !  strange  sounds  !  0  fearful  dream  ! 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still. 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger  !  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep. 
Spare,  spare,  O  spare  thine  evening  meal. 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep ! 


THE  LAST  BLOSSOM.  85 


THE    LAST   BLOSSOM. 

THOUGH  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream 
Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles  ; 
The  leagues  of  life  tb  graybeards  seem 
Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice  1 
It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 

And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece  " 
Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 

To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen. 
We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 

The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow. 
And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 

As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 

His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies, — 
The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile, 

With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 

Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall. 
And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 

The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 


86  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day, 

When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met. 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue,  ^ 

A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 

Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 
Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long ! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  pf  song  ! 

She  blushes  !     Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told ! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 
Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold ! 

Come  to  my  arms  !  —  love  heeds  not  years ; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows.  — 
Ha !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  1 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  —  Rose ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  — but  not  for  me; 

Alas  !  when  w^oman  looks  too  kind. 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see,  — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind ! 


"  THE  boys:'  87 


"THE    BOYS." 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys  ? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite ! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar  !     We  're  twenty  to-night ! 

We  're  twenty !     We  're  twenty  !     Who  says  we  are  more  ? 
He  's  tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes  !  —  show  him  the  door ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  twenty  ?  "  —  Yes  !  white  if  we  please  ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's  nothing  can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?     Excuse  the  mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake  ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been  told. 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  :  — 
That  boy  we  call  "  Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "  Judge  "  ; 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it  's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "  Speaker,"  — the  one  on  the  right ; 
«  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night  ? 
That 's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we  chaff; 
There 's  the  "  Reverend  "  What 's  his  name  ?  —  don't  make  me 
laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 

Made  believe  he  liad  written  a  wonderful  book, 

And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was  true ! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in,  — a  good  joke  it  was  too  ! 


88  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain. 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 

We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now  he  's  "  The  Squire/* 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith  ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country,"  "  of  thee  !  " 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?  —  You  think  he  's  all  fun  ; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done"; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call. 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  all  ! 

Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or  with  pen  •, 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here  *s  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  the  Boys  ! 

January  6,  1859. 


A  SEA  DIALOGUE.  89 


A  SEA   DIALOGUE. 

Cabin  Passenger.  Man  at  Wheel. 

CABIN    PASSENGER. 

FKIEND,  you  seem  thoughtful.     I  not  wonder  much 
That  he  who  sails  the  ocean  should  be  sad. 
I  am  myself  reflective.  —  When  I  think 
Of  all  this  wallowing  beast,  the  Sea,  has  sucked 
Between  his  sharp,  thin  lips,  the  wedgy  waves, 
What  heaps  of  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds,  pearls  ; 
What  piles  of  shekels,  talents,  ducats,  crowns, 
What  bales  of  Tyrian  mantles,  Indian  shawls. 
Of  laces  that  have  blanked  the  weavers'  eyes. 
Of  silken  tissues,  wrought  by  worm  and  man, 
The  half-starved  workman,  and  the  well-fed  worm ; 
What  marbles,  bronzes,  pictures,  parchments,  books ; 
What  many-lobuled,  thought-engendering  brains ; 
Lie  with  the  gaping  sea-shells  in  his  maw,  — 
I,  too,  am  silent ;  for  all  language  seems 
A  mockery,  and  the  speech  of  man  is  vain. 
O  mariner,  we  look  upon  the  waves 
And  they  rebuke  our  babbling.     "  Peace  !  "  they  say,  — 
"  Mortal,  be  still  !  "     My  noisy  tongue  is  hushed, 
And  with  my  trembling  finger  on  my  lips 
My  soul  exclaims  in  ecstasy  — 

MAN  AT    WHEEL. 

Belay 

CABIN  PASSENGER. 

Ah  yes  !     "  Delay,"  —  it  calls,  "  nor  haste  to  break 
The  charm  of  stillness  with  an  idle  word  !  " 


90 


HUMOROUS  POEMS, 

O  mariner,  I  love  thee,  for  thy  thought 
Strides  even  with  my  own,  nay,  flies  before. 
Thou  art  a  brother  to  the  wind  and  wave  ; 
Have  they  not  music  for  thine  ear  as  mine. 
When  the  wild  tempest  makes  thy  ship  his  lyre. 
Smiting  a  cavernous  basso  from  the  shrouds 
And  climbing  up  his  gamut  through  the  stays, 
Through  buntlines,  bowlines,  ratlines,  till  it  shrills 
An  alto  keener  than  the  locust  sings. 
And  all  the  great  -^olian  orchestra 
Storms  out  its  mad  sonata  in  the  gale 
Is  not  the  scene  a  wondrous  and  — 


MAN    AT   WHEEL. 


Avast ! 


CABIN  PASSENGER. 

Ah  yes,  a  vast,  a  vast  and  wondrous  scene  ! 
I  see  thy  soul  is  open  as  the  day 
That  holds  the  sunshine  in  its  azure  bowl 
To  all  the  solemn  glories  of  the  deep. 
Tell  me,  O  mariner,  dost  thou  never  feel 
The  grandeur  of  thine  office,  —  to  control 
The  keel  that  cuts  the  ocean  Hke  a  knife 
And  leaves  a  wake  behind  it  like  a  seam 
In  the  great  shining  garment  of  the  world  ? 

MAN    AT  WHEEL. 

Belay  y'r  jaw,  y'  swab  !  y'  hoss-marine ! 

{To  the  Captain.) 
Ay,  ay.  Sir  !     Stiddy,  Sir  !     Sou'wes'  b'  sou* ! 


November  lo,  1864. 


THE  JUBILEE. 


THE   JUBILEE. 

NAUTICUS   LOQUITUR. 

I'VE  heerd  some  talk  of  a  Jubilee 
To  celebrate  "  our  "  "  victory  "  ;  — 
Now  I  'm  a  chap  as  follers  the  sea, 
'n'  f  r  'z  I  know,  nob'dy  '11  listen  to  me, 
B't  I  '11  tell  y'  jest  what 's  my  idee. 

When  you  'n'  a  fellah  'z  got  your  grip, 
Before  y'  've  settled  it  which  can  whip, 
I  won't  say  nothin'.     You  let  her  rip ! 
Knock  him  to  pieces,  chip  by  chip  ! 
But  don't  fire  into  a  sinkin'  ship  ! 

I  tell  y',  shipmates  'n'  lan'sm'n  too. 

There 's  chaps  aboard  th't  's  'z  good  'z  you,  — 

'T  was  God  A'mighty  that  made  her  crew  ! 

Folks  is  folks  !  'n'  that 's  'z  true 

'z  that  land  is  black  'n'  water  blue  ! 

Come  tell  us,  shipmates,  ef  y'  can. 

Was  there  ever  a  crew  sence  th'  worl'  began 

That  secli  a  wallopin'  had  to  stan' 

'z  them  poor  fellahs  th't  tried  t\  man 

The  great  Chicago  catamaran  ! 

Wahl,  this  is  what  y'  've  bed  t'  do,  — 
T'  lick  'em,  —  but  not  t'  drown  'em  too 
There  's  some  good  fellahs,  'n'  not  a  few 
That 's  a  swimmin'  about,  all  chilled  'n'  blue, 
'n  wants  t'  be  h'isted  aboard  o'  you  ! 


91 


92 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Come,  drowning  foes  !  your  friends  we  '11  be,  — 

We  Ve  licked  !    Haw  !  haw  !    You  're  licked  !    Hee  !  hee  ! 

Hooraw  for  you  !     Hooraw  for  we  ! 

We  '11  wait  till  the  whole  wide  land  is  free, 

And  then  we  '11  have  our  Jubilee  ! 

November  12,  1864. 


THE   SWEET   LITTLE   MAN. 

DEDICATED   TO   THE   STAY-AT-HOME    RANGERS. 

NOW,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our  battles. 
Each  at  his  post  to  do  all  that  he  can, 
Down  among  rebels  and  contraband  chattels, 
What  are  you  doing,  my  sweet  little  man  ? 

All  the  brave  boys  under  canvas  are  sleeping, 
All  of  them  pressing  to  march  with  the  van. 

Far  from  the  home  where  their  sweethearts  are  weeping ; 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  sweet  little  man  "? 

You  with  the  terrible  warlike  moustaches, 

Fit  for  a  colonel  or  chief  of  a  clan. 
You  with  the  waist  made  for  sword-belts  and  sashes. 

Where  are  your  shoulder-straps,  sweet  little  man  ? 

Bring  him  the  buttonless  garment  of  woman  ! 

Cover  his  face  lest  it  freckle  and  tan  ; 
Muster  the  Apron-string  Guards  on  the  Common, 

That  is  the  corps  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 


THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN. 

Give  him  for  escort  a  file  of  young  misses, 
Each  of  them  armed  with  a  deadly  rattan  ; 

They^hall  defend  him  from  laughter  and  hisses, 
Aimed  by  low  boys  at  the  sweet  little  man ! 


93 


All  the  fair  maidens  about  him  shall  cluster, 
Pluck  the  white  feathers  from  bonnet  and  fan, 

Make  him  a  plume  like  a  turkey-wing  duster,  — 
That  is  the  crest  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 


94  HUMOROUS  POEMS, 

O,  but  the  Apron-string  Guards  are  the  fellows ! 

Drilling  each  day  since  our  troubles  began,  — 
"  Handle  your  walking-sticks  ! "    "  Shoulder  iirabrellas  !  " 

That  is  the  style  for  the  sweet  little  man. 

Have  we  a  nation  to  save  1     In  the  first  place 
Saving  ourselves  is  the  sensible  plan,  — 

Surely  the  spot  where  there  's  shooting  ^s  the  worst  place 
Where  I  can  stand,  says  the  sweet  little  man. 

Catch  me  confiding  my  person  with  strangers  \ 
Think  how  the  cowardly  Bull-Runners  ran ! 

In  the  brigade  of  the  Stay-at-home  Rangers 
Marches  my  corps,  says  the  sweet  little  man. 

Such  was  the  stuff  of  the  Malakoff-takers, 

Such  were  the  soldiers  that  scaled  the  Redan ; 

Truculent  housemaids  and  bloodthirsty  Quakers, 
Brave  not  the  wrath  of  the  sweet  little  man ! 

Yield  him  the  sidewalk,  ye  nursery  maidens  ! 

Sauve  qui  pent!  Bridget,  and  right  about !  Ann;  — 
Fierce  as  a  shark  in  a  school  of  menhadens, 

See  him  advancing,  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Wlien  the  red  flails  of  the  battle-field's  threshers 
Beat  out  the  continent's  wheat  from  its  bran. 

While  the  wind  scatters  the  chafiy  seceshers. 
What  will  become  of  our  sweet  little  man  ? 

When  the  brown  soldiers  come  back  from  the  borders, 
How  will  he  look  while  his  features  they  scan  ^ 

How  will  he  feel  when  he  gets  marching  orders, 
Signed  by  his  lady  love  ?  sweet  little  man  ! 


OUR    OLDEST  FRIEND.  95 

Fear  not  for  him,  though  the  rebels  expect  him,  — 

Life  is  too  precious  to  shorten  its  span  ; 
Woman  her  broomstick  shall  raise  to  protect  him, 

Will  she  not  fight  for  the  sweet  little  man ! 

Now  then,  nine  cheers  for  the  Stay-at-home  Eanger! 

Blow  the  great  fish-horn  and  beat  the  big  pan !    . 
First  in  the  field  that  is  farthest  from  danger, 

Take  your  white-feather  plume,  sweet  little  man  ! 


OUR   OLDEST   FRIEND. 

READ   TO   "  THE   BOYS   OF   '29,"    JAN.    5,    1865. 

I    GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air. 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife. 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life, 
He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night. 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 


96  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone ; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not ; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass ! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  w^e  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four  ; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  — he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still ; 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New- Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send ; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be. 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us !  he  pats  our  heads. 
And,  lo  !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads ; 
And  he  ^s  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair, 
^  Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done ; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity.!  " 


A   FAREWELL    TO  AGASSIZ. 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company  ! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class-Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here  's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate,  Father  Time ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald,  but  as  wise  and  tcugh  as  he ! 


97 


A  FAREWELL  TO   AGASSIZ. 

HOW  the  mountains  talked  together. 
Looking  down  upon  the  weather, 
When  they  heard  our  friend  had  planned  his 
Little  trip  among  the  Andes ! 
How  they  '11  bare-  their  snowy  scalps 
To  the  climber  of  the  Alps 
When  the  cry  goes  through  their  passes, 
"  Here  comes  the  great  Agassiz  !  " 
"  Yes,  I  'm  tall,"  says  Chimborazo, 
"  But  I  wait  for  him  to  say  so,  — 
That 's  the  only  thing  that  lacks, — ^^he 
Must  see  me,  Cotopaxi ! '' 


98  HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

*'  Ay  !  ay  !  "  the  fire-peak  thunders, 
"  And  he  must  view  my  wonders  ! 
I  'm  but  a  lonely  crater 
Till  I  have  him  for  spectator ! " 
The  mountain  hearts  are  yearning, 
The  lava-torches  burning, 
The  rivers  bend  to  meet  him, 
The  forests  bow  to  greet  him. 
It  thrills  the  spinal  column 
Of  fossil  fishes  solemn, 
And  glaciers  crawl  the  faster 
To  the  feet  of  their  old  master ! 

Heaven  keep  \tm  well  and  hearty, 
Both  him  and  all  his  party ! 
From  the  sun  that  broils  and  smites, 
From  the  centipede  that  bites, 
From  the  hail-storm  and  the  thunder. 
From  the  vampire  and  the  condor. 
From  the  gust  upon  the  river, 
From  the  sudden  earthquake  shiver. 
From  the  trip  of  mule  or  donkey. 
From  the  midnight  howling  monkey. 
From  the  stroke  of  knife  or  dagger. 
From  the  puma,  and  the  jaguar. 
From  the  horrid  boa-constrictor 
That  has  scared  us  in  the  pictur^ 
From  the  Indians  of  the  Pampas 
Who  would  dine  upon  their  grampas. 
From  every  beast  and  vermin 
That  to  think  of  sets  us  squirming, 
From  every  snake  that  tries  on 
The  traveller  his  p'ison. 


A  FAREWELL    TO  AGASSIZ,  99 

From  every  pest  of  Natur', 

Likewise  the  alligator, 

And  from  two  things  left  behind  him,  — 

(Be  sure  they  '11  try  to  find  him,) 

The  tax-bill  and  assessor,  — 

Heaven  keep  the  great  Professor  ! 

May  he  find,  with  his  apostles, 
That  the  land  is  full  of  fossils. 
That  the  waters  swarm  with  fishes 
Shaped  according  to  his  wishes, 
That  every  pool  is  fertile 
In  fancy  kinds  of  turtle. 
New  birds  around  him  singing, 
New  insects,  never  stinging, 
With  a  million  novel  data 
About  the  articulata. 
And  facts  that  strip  off  all  husks 
From  the  history  of  moUusks. 

And  when,  with  loud  Te  Deum, 
He  returns  to  his  Museum, 
May  he  find  the  monstrous  reptile 
That  so  long  the  land  has  kept  ill 
By  Grant  and  Sherman  throttled, 
And  by  Father  Abraham  bottled, 
(All  specked  and  streaked  and  mottled 
With  the  scars  of  murderous  battles, 
Where  he  clashed  the  iron  rattles 
That  gods  and  men  he  shook  at,) 
For  all  the  world  to  look  at ! 

God  bless  the  great  Professor ! 
And  Madam  too,  God  bless  her ! 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

Bless  him  and  all  his  band, 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 
As  they  sail,  ride,  walk,  and  stand,  — 
Bless  them  head  and  heart  and  hand, 
Till  their  glorious  raid  is  o'er, 
And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore  ! 
Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation. 
With  its  shout  of  exultation, 
Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation. 
And  the  shapes  of  buried  aeons 
Join  the  living  creatures'  paeans, 
While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 
Leads  the  palaeozoic  chorus,  — 
God  bless  the  great  Professor, 
And  the  land  his  proud  possessor,  — 
Bless  them  now  and  evermore ! 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


B 

14  DAY  USE 

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